f&he&awiof 
I  G>&  c7o-morrow 


cJrances 


JBurnett 


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D5E Burnett. 

The   dav;n   of  a 


to-morrow. 


Southern  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 

Los  Angeles 


IftlA- 

032 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  L-9-15wi-8,'26 


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Something  made  him  turn  and  go  with  her. 


THE  DAWN   OF 
A  TO-MORROW 

By 

FRANCES  HODGSON 
BURNETT 

ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES     SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW    YORK     •        MGMXI 


Copyright,  fQOJ,  IQ06, 
BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  February,  1906. 

Reprinted  March,  September,  December,  1906; 

February,  October,  1907;    February,  July,  1908; 

February,  August,  December,  1909 

July,  1910;  April  1911 

November,  IQII 


TS 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Fnm  drawingt  in  color  by  F.  C.  Tohn 

Something  made  him  turn  and  go  with  her     Frontispiett 

PAGE 

Antony  Dart  examined  it  critically  ....  28 

The  girl  held  out  her  hand  cautiously  —  the 

piece  of  gold  lying  upon  its  palm  ...  51 

"  God  !  "  he  cried.     «  Will  I  come  ?  "    .     .  56 

"  I  'm  alive  !  I  'm  alive  !  "  she  cried  out    .     .  92 

"  Speak,  Lord,  thy  servant  'eareth**     .     .     .  102 

"  There  —  is  —  no  —  death"     .....  129 

*'  And  a  few  hours  ago  you  were  on  the  point 

of—  "     ..........  IJ1 


THE   DAWN  OF  A 
TO-MORROW 


THERE  are  always  two  ways  of 
looking   at  a  thing,  frequently 
there  are  six  or  seven  ;  but  two  ways 
of  looking  at  a  London  fog  are  quite 
enough.    When  it  is  thick  and  yellow 
in     the    streets    and    stings    a    man's 
W  throat  and  lungs  as  he  breathes  it,  an 
"•   awakening  in   the  early   morning   is 
,     either    an   unearthly  and    grewsome, 
!     or   a   mysteriously  enclosing,  seclud- 
ing, and  comfortable  thing.      If  one 
awakens  in  a  healthy  body,  and  with 
a  clear  brain  rested  by  normal  sleep 


THE    DAWN    OF 

and  retaining  memories  of  a  normally 
agreeable  yesterday,  one  may  lie  watch- 
ing the  housemaid  building  the  fire ; 
and  after  she  has  swept  the  hearth 
and  put  things  in  order,  lie  watching 
the  flames  of  the  blazing  and  crack- 
ling wood  catch  the  coals  and  set  them 
blazing  also,  and  dancing  merrily  and 
filling  corners  with  a  glow  ;  and  in  so 
lying  and  realizing  that  leaping  light 
and  warmth  and  a  soft  bed  are  good 
things,  one  may  turn  over  on  one's 
back,  stretching  arms  and  legs  lux- 
uriously, drawing  deep  breaths  and 
smiling  at  a  knowledge  of  the  fog 
outside  which  makes  half-past  eight 
o'clock  on  a  December  morning  as 
dark  as  twelve  o'clock  on  a  Decem- 
ber night.  Under  such  conditions 
the  soft,  thick,  yellow  gloom  has  its 


A    TO-MORROW 

picturesque  and  even  humorous  aspect. 
One  feels  enclosed  by  it  at  once  fan- 
tastically and  cosily,  and  is  inclined 
to  revel  in  imaginings  of  the  pic- 
ture outside,  its  Rembrandt  lights  and 
orange  yellows,  the  halos  about  the 
street-lamps,  the  illumination  of  shop- 
windows,  the  flare  of  torches  stuck 
up  over  coster  barrows  and  coffee- 
stands,  the  shadows  on  the  faces  of 
the  men  and  women  selling  and  buy- 
ing beside  them.  Refreshed  by  sleep 
and  comfort  and  surrounded  by  light, 
warmth,  and  good  cheer,  it  is  easy  to 
face  the  day,  to  confront  going  out 
into  the  fog  and  feeling  a  sort  of 
pleasure  in  its  mysteries.  This  is  one 
way  of  looking  at  it,  but  only  one. 

The  other  way  is  marked  by  enor- 
mous differences. 


THE    DAWN    OF 

A  man  —  he  had  given  his  name 
to  the  people  of  the  house  as  Antony 
Dart  —  awakened  in  a  third-story 
bedroom  in  a  lodging-house  in  a  poor 
street  in  London,  and  as  his  conscious- 
ness returned  to  him,  its  slow  and 
reluctant  movings  confronted  the 
second  point  of  view  —  marked  by 
enormous  differences.  He  had  not 
slept  two  consecutive  hours  through 
the  night,  and  when  he  had  slept  he 
had  been  tormented  by  dreary  dreams, 
which  were  more  full  of  misery  be- 
cause of  their  elusive  vagueness,  which 
kept  his  tortured  brain  on  a  wearying 
strain  of  effort  to  reach  some  definite 
understanding  of  them.  Yet  when 
he  awakened  the  consciousness  of 
being  again  alive  was  an  awful  thing. 
If  the  dreams  could  have  faded  into 


A    TO-MORROW 

blankness  and  all  have  passed  with 
the  passing  of  the  night,  how  he 
could  have  thanked  whatever  gods 
there  be !  Only  not  to  awake  — 
only  not  to  awake !  But  he  had 
awakened. 

The  clock  struck  nine  as  he  did 
so,  consequently  he  knew  the  hour. 
The  lodging-house  slavey  had  aroused 
him  by  coming  to  light  the  fire.  She 
had  set  her  candle  on  the  hearth  and 
done  her  work  as  stealthily  as  pos- 
sible, but  he  had  been  disturbed, 
though  he  had  made  a  desperate  effort 
to  struggle  back  into  sleep.  That 
was  no  use  —  no  use.  He  was  awake 
and  he  was  in  the  midst  of  it  all  again. 
Without  the  sense  of  luxurious  com- 
fort he  opened  his  eyes  and  turned 
upon  his  back,  throwing  out  his  arms 


THE    DAWN    OF 

flatly,  so  that  he  lay  as  in  the  form 
of  a  cross,  in  heavy  weariness  and 
anguish.  For  months  he  had  awak- 
ened each  morning  after  such  a  night 
and  had  so  lain  like  a  crucified  thing. 
As  he  watched  the  painful  flicker- 
ing of  the  damp  and  smoking  wood  and 
coal  he  remembered  this  and  thought 
that  there  had  been  a  lifetime  of  such 
awakenings,  not  knowing  that  the 
morbidness  of  a  fagged  brain  blotted 
out  the  memory  of  more  normal  days 
and  told  him  fantastic  lies  which  were 
but  a  hundredth  part  truth.  He  could 
see  only  the  hundredth  part  truth,  and 
it  assumed  proportions  so  huge  that 
he  could  see  nothing  else.  In  such 
a  state  the  human  brain  is  an  infernal 
machine  and  its  workings  can  only  be 
conquered  if  the  mortal  thing  which 


A    TO-MORROW 

lives  with  it  —  day  and  night,  night 
and  day  —  has  learned  to  separate  its 
controllable  from  its  seemingly  un- 
controllable atoms,  and  can  silence 
its  clamor  on  its  way  to  madness. 
Antony  Dart  had  not  learned  this 
thing  and  the  clamor  had  had  its 
hideous  way  with  him.  Physicians 
would  have  given  a  name  to  his 
mental  and  physical  condition.  He 
had  heard  these  names  often  —  applied 
to  men  the  strain  of  whose  lives  had 
been  like  the  strain  of  his  own,  and 
had  left  them  as  it  had  left  him  — 
jaded,  joyless,  breaking  things.  Some 
of  them  had  been  broken  and  had 
died  or  were  dragging  out  bruised  and 
tormented  days  in  their  own  homes 
or  in  mad-houses.  He  always  shud- 
dered when  he  heard  their  names, 

7 


THE    DAWN    OF 

and  rebelled  with  sick  fear  against 
the  mere  mention  of  them.  They 
had  worked  as  he  had  worked,  they 
had  been  stricken  with  the  delirium 
of  accumulation  —  accumulation  — 
as  he  had  been.  They  had  been 
caught  in  the  rush  and  swirl  of  the 
great  maelstrom,  and  had  been  borne 
round  and  round  in  it,  until  having 
grasped  every  coveted  thing  tossing 
upon  its  circling  waters,  they  them- 
selves had  been  flung  upon  the  shore 
with  both  hands  full,  the  rocks  about 
them  strewn  with  rich  possessions, 
while  they  lay  prostrate  and  gazed 
at  all  life  had  brought  with  dull, 
hopeless,  anguished  eyes.  He  knew 
—  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst  — 
what  would  be  said  of  him,  because 
he  had  heard  it  said  of  others.  "  He 

8 


A    TO-MORROW 

worked  too  hard  —  he  worked  too 
hard."  He  was  sick  of  hearing  it. 
What  was  wrong  with  the  world  — 
what  was  wrong  with  man,  as  Man 
—  if  work  could  break  him  like  this? 
If  one  believed  in  Deity,  the  living 
creature  It  breathed  into  being  must 
be  a  perfect  thing  —  not  one  to  be 
wearied,  sickened,  tortured  by  the 
life  Its  breathing  had  created.  A 
mere  man  would  disdain  to  build 
a  thing  so  poor  and  incomplete. 
A  mere  human  engineer  who  con- 
structed an  engine  whose  workings 
were  perpetually  at  fault  —  which 
went  wrong  when  called  upon  to 
do  the  labor  it  was  made  for  —  who 
would  not  scoff  at  it  and  cast  it  aside 
as  a  piece  of  worthless  bungling  ? 
"Something  is  wrong,'*  he  mut- 

9 


THE    DAWN    OF 

tered,  lying  flat  upon  his  cross  and 
staring  at  the  yellow  haze  which 
had  crept  through  crannies  in  win- 
dow-sashes into  the  room.  "  Some- 
one is  wrong.  Is  it  I  —  or  You  ? " 

His  thin  lips  drew  themselves 
back  against  his  teeth  in  a  mirthless 
smile  which  was  like  a  grin. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  I  am  pretty 
far  gone.  I  am  beginning  to  talk  to 
myself  about  God.  Bryan  did  it  just 
before  he  was  taken  to  Dr.  Hewletts' 
place  and  cut  his  throat." 

He  had  not  led  a  specially  evil 
life;  he  had  not  broken  laws,  but 
the  subject  of  Deity  was  not  one 
which  his  scheme  of  existence  had 
included.  When  it  had  haunted 
him  of  late  he  had  felt  it  an  un- 
toward and  morbid  sign.  The  thing 


A    TO-MORROW 

had  drawn  him  —  drawn  him ;  he 
had  complained  against  it,  he  had 
argued,  sometimes  he  knew  —  shud- 
dering—  that  he  had  raved.  Some- 
thing had  seemed  to  stand  aside  and 
watch  his  being  and  his  thinking. 
Something  which  filled  the  universe 
had  seemed  to  wait,  and  to  have 
waited  through  all  the  eternal  ages, 
to  see  what  he  —  one  man  —  would 
do.  At  times  a  great  appalled  won- 
der had  swept  over  him  at  his  realiz- 
ation that  he  had  never  known  or 
thought  of  it  before.  It  had  been 
there  always  —  through  all  the  ages 
that  had  passed.  And  sometimes  — 
once  or  twice  —  the  thought  had  in 
some  unspeakable,  untranslatable  way 
brought  him  a  moment's  calm. 
But  at  other  times  he  had  said  to 


THE    DAWN    OF 

himself — with  a  shivering  soul  cow- 
ering within  him  —  that  this  was  only 
part  of  it  all  and  was  a  beginning, 
perhaps,  of  religious  monomania. 

During  the  last  week  he  had 
known  what  he  was  going  to  do  — 
he  had  made  up  his  mind.  This 
abject  horror  through  which  others 
had  let  themselves  be  dragged  to 
madness  or  death  he  would  not  en- 
dure. The  end  should  come  quickly, 
and  no  one  should  be  smitten  aghast 
by  seeing  or  knowing  how  it  came. 
In  the  crowded  shabbier  streets  of 
London  there  were  lodging-houses 
where  one,  by  taking  precautions, 
could  end  his  life  in  such  a  manner 
as  would  blot  him  out  of  any  world 
where  such  a  man  as  himself  had  been 
known.  A  pistol,  properly  managed, 


A    TO-MORROW 

would  obliterate  resemblance  to  any 
human  thing.  Months  ago  through 
chance  talk  he  had  heard  how  it 
could  be  done — and  done  quickly. 
He  could  leave  a  misleading  letter. 
He  had  planned  what  it  should  be  — 
the  story  it  should  tell  of  a  dis- 
heartened mediocre  venturer  of  his 
poor  all  returning  bankrupt  and 
humiliated  from  Australia,  ending 
existence  in  such  pennilessness  that 
the  parish  must  give  him  a  pauper's 
grave.  What  did  it  matter  where  a 
man  lay,  so  that  he  slept  —  slept  — 
slept  ?  Surely  with  one's  brains 
scattered  one  would  sleep  soundly 
anywhere. 

He    had    come    to  the  house  the 
night  before,   dressed    shabbily  with 
the     pitiable     respectability     of     a 
13 


THE    DAWN    OF 

defeated  man.  He  had  entered 
droopingly  with  bent  shoulders .  and 
hopeless  hang  of  head.  In  his  own 
sphere  he  was  a  man  who  held  him- 
self well.  He  had  let  fall  a  few  dis- 
pirited sentences  when  he  had 
engaged  his  back  room  from  the 
woman  of  the  house,  and  she  had 
recognized  him  as  one  of  the  luck- 
less. In  fact,  she  had  hesitated  a 
moment  before  his  unreliable  look 
until  he  had  taken  out  money  from 
his  pocket  and  paid  his  rent  for  a 
week  in  advance.  She  would  have 
that  at  least  for  her  trouble,  he  had 
said  to  himself.  He  should  not  oc- 
cupy the  room  after  to-morrow.  In 
his  own  home  some  days  would  pass 
before  his  household  began  to  make 
irquiries.  He  had  told  his  servants 


A    TO-MORROW 

that  he  was  going  over  to  Paris  for  a 
change.  He  would  be  safe  and  deep 
in  his  pauper's  grave  a  week  before 
they  asked  each  other  why  they  did 
not  hear  from  him.  All  was  in 
order.  One  of  the  mocking  agonies 
was  that  living  was  done  for.  He 
had  ceased  to  live.  Work,  pleasure, 
sun,  moon,  and  stars  had  lost  their 
meaning.  He  stood  and  looked  at 
the  most  radiant  loveliness  of  land 
and  sky  and  sea  and  felt  nothing. 
Success  brought  greater  wealth  each 
day  without  stirring  a  pulse  of 
pleasure,  even  in  triumph.  There 
was  nothing  left  but  the  awful  days 
and  awful  nights  to  which  he  knew 
physicians  could  give  their  scientific 
name,  but  had  no  healing  for.  He 
had  gone  far  enough.  He  would  go 
«s 


THE    DAWN    OF 

no  farther.  To-morrow  it  would 
have  been  over  long  hours.  And 
there  would  have  been  no  public  de- 
claiming over  the  humiliating  pitiful- 
ness  of  his  end.  And  what  did  it 
matter  ? 

How  thick  the  fog  was  outside  — 
thick  enough  for  a  man  to  lose  him- 
self in  it.  The  yellow  mist  which 
had  crept  in  under  the  doors  and 
through  the  crevices  of  the  window- 
sashes  gave  a  ghostly  look  to  the 
room  —  a  ghastly,  abnormal  look,  he 
said  to  himself.  The  fire  was 
smouldering  instead  of  blazing.  But 
what  did  it  matter  ?  He  was  going 
out.  He  had  not  bought  the  pistol 
last  night  —  like  a  fool.  Somehow 
his  brain  had  been  so  tired  and 
crowded  that  he  had  forgotten. 

16 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  Forgotten."  He  mentally  re- 
peated  the  word  as  he  got  out  of  bed. 
By  this  time  to-morrow  he  should 
have  forgotten  everything.  This 
time  to-morrow.  His  mind  repeated 
that  also,  as  he  began  to  dress  him- 
self. Where  should  he  be  ?  Should 
he  be  anywhere?  Suppose  he 
awakened  again  —  to  something  as 
bad  as  this?  How  did  a  man  get 
out  of  his  body?  After  the  crash 
and  shock  what  happened?  Did  one 
find  oneself  standing  beside  the  Thing 
and  looking  down  at  it  ?  It  would 
not  be  a  good  thing  to  stand  and 
look  down  on  —  even  for  that  which 
had  deserted  it.  But  having  torn 
oneself  loose  from  it  and  its  devilish 
aches  and  pains,  one  would  not  care 
—  one  would  see  how  little  it  all 

«7 


THE    DAWN    OF 

mattered.  Anything  else  must  be 
better  than  this  —  the  thing  for 
which  there  was  a  scientific  name 
but  no  healing.  He  had  taken  all 
the  drugs,  he  had  obeyed  all  the 
medical  orders,  and  here  he  was  after 
that  last  hell  of  a  night  —  dressing 
himself  in  a  back  bedroom  of  a 
cheap  lodging-house  to  go  out  and 
buy  a  pistol  in  this  damned  fog. 

He  laughed  at  the  last  phrase  of 
his  thought,  the  laugh  which  was  a 
mirthless  grin. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  it  as  if  I  was 
afraid  of  taking  cold/'  he  said. 
"  And  to-morrow  — !  " 

There  would  be  no  To-morrow. 
To-morrows  were  at  an  end.  No 
more  nights  —  no  more  days  —  no 
more  morrows. 

18 


A    TO-MORROW 

He  finished  dressing,  putting  on 
his  discriminatingly  chosen  shabby- 
genteel  clothes  with  a  care  for  the 
effect  he  intended  them  to  produce. 
The  collar  and  cuffs  of  his  shirt  were 
frayed  and  yellow,  and  he  fastened  his 
collar  with  a  pin  and  tied  his  worn 
necktie  carelessly.  His  overcoat  was 
beginning  to  wear  a  greenish  shade 
and  look  threadbare,  so  was  his  hat. 
When  his  toilet  was  complete  he 
looked  at  himself  in  the  cracked  and 
hazy  glass,  bending  forward  tc»  scru- 
tinize his  unshaven  face  under  the 
shadow  of  the  dingy  hat. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  he  muttered. 
"  It  is  not  far  to  the  pawnshop 
where  I  saw  it." 

The  stillness  of  the  room  as  he 
turned  to  go  out  was  uncanny.  As 
19 


THE    DAWN    OF 

it  was  a  back  room,  there  was  no 
street  below  from  which  could  arise 
sounds  of  passing  vehicles,  and  the 
thickness  of  the  fog  muffled  such 
sound  as  might  have  floated  from  the 
front.  He  stopped  half-way  to  the 
door,  not  knowing  why,  and  listened. 
To  what — for  what?  The  silence 
seemed  to  spread  through  all  the 
house  —  out  into  the  streets  — 
through  all  London  —  through  all 
the  world,  and  he  to  stand  in  the 
midst  of  it,  a  man  on  the  way  to 
Death  —  with  no  To-morrow. 

What  did  it  mean  ?  It  seemed  to 
mean  something.  The  world  with- 
drawn —  life  withdrawn  —  sound 
withdrawn  —  breath  withdrawn.  He 
stood  and  waited.  Perhaps  this 
was  one  of  the  symptoms  of  the 


A    TO-MORROW 

morbid  thing  for  which  there  was 
that  name.  If  so  he  had  better  get 
away  quickly  and  have  it  over,  lest 
he  be  found  wandering  about  not 
knowing  —  not  knowing.  But  now 
he  knew  —  the  Silence.  He  waited 

—  waited  and    tried    to  hear,  as   if 
something  was  calling  him  —  calling 
without    sound.     It  returned  to  him 

—  the  thought  of  That  which  had 
waited   through  all  the  ages   to   see 
what    he  —  one    man  —  would    do. 
He  had  never  exactly  pitied  himself 
before  —  he    did   not   know  that  he 
pitied    himself  now,  but    he   was   a 
man  going  to  his  death,  and  a  light, 
cold  sweat  broke    out    on   him    and 
it  seemed  as  if  it  was  not  he  who 
did    it,  but  some    other  —  he    flung 
out  his  arms  and  cried  aloud  words 

81 


THE    DAWN    OF 

he  had  not  known  he  was  going  to 
speak. 

«  Lord !  Lord  !  What  shall  I  do 
to  be  saved  ?  " 

But  the  Silence  gave  no  answer. 
It  was  the  Silence  still. 

And  after  standing  a  few  moments 
panting,  his  arms  fell  and  his  head 
dropped,  and  turning  the  handle  of 
the  door,  he  went  out  to  buy  the 
pistol. 


A    TO-MORROW 


II 

A 5  he  went  down  the  narrow  stair- 
case, covered  with  its  dingy  and 
threadbare  carpet,  he  found  the 
house  so  full  of  dirty  yellow  haze 
that  he  realized  that  the  fog  must  be 
of  the  extraordinary  ones  which  are 
remembered  in  after-years  as  abnor- 
mal specimens  of  their  kind.  He 
recalled  that  there  had  been  one  of 
the  sort  three  years  before,  and  that 
traffic  and  business  had  been  almost 
entirely  stopped  by  it,  that  accidents 
had  happened  in  the  streets,  and  that 
people  having  lost  their  way  had 
wandered  about  turning  corners  until 
they  found  themselves  far  from  their 
intended  destinations  and  obliged  to 


THE    DAWN    OF 

take  refuge  in  hotels  or  the  houses  of 
hospitable  strangers.  Curious  inci- 
dents had  occurred  and  odd  stories 
were  told  by  those  who  had  felt 
themselves  obliged  by  circumstances 
to  go  out  into  the  baffling  gloom. 
He  guessed  that  something  of  a  like 
nature  had  fallen  upon  the  town 
again.  The  gas-light  on  the  land- 
ings and  in  the  melancholy  hall 
burned  feebly  —  so  feebly  that  one 
got  but  a  vague  view  of  the  rickety 
hat-stand  and  the  shabby  overcoats 
and  head-gear  hanging  upon  it.  It 
was  well  for  him  that  he  had  but 
a  corner  or  so  to  turn  before  he 
reached  the  pawnshop  in  whose 
window  he  had  seen  the  pistol  he 
intended  to  buy. 

When  he   opened  the  street-door 

24 


A    TO-MORROW 

he  saw  that  the  fog  was,  upon  the 
whole,  perhaps  even  heavier  and 
more  obscuring,  if  possible,  than  the 
one  so  well  remembered.  He  could 
not  see  anything  three  feet  before 
him,  he  could  not  see  with  distinct- 
ness anything  two  feet  ahead.  The 
sensation  of  stepping  forward  was  un- 
certain and  mysterious  enough  to  be 
almost  appalling.  A  man  not  suffi- 
ciently cautious  might  have  fallen 
into  any  open  hole  in  his  path.  An- 
tony Dart  kept  as  closely  as  possible 
to  the  sides  of  the  houses.  It  would 
have  been  easy  to  walk  off  the  pave- 
ment into  the  middle  of  the  street 
but  for  the  edges  of  the  curb  and  the 
step  downward  from  its  level.  Traffic 
had  almost  absolutely  ceased,  though 
in  the  more  important  streets  link- 


THE    DAWN    OF 

boys  were  making  efforts  to  guide 
men  or  four-wheelers  slowly  along. 
The  blind  feeling  of  the  thing  was 
rather  awful.  Though  but  few 
pedestrians  were  out,  Dart  found 
himself  once  or  twice  brushing  against 
or  coming  into  forcible  contact  with 
men  feeling  their  way  about  like 
himself. 

"One  turn  to  the  right,"  he  re- 
peated mentally,  "  two  to  the  left, 
and  the  place  is  at  the  corner  of  the 
other  side  of  the  street." 

He  managed  to  reach  it  at  last, 
but  it  had  been  a  slow,  and  there- 
fore, long  journey.  All  the  gas-jets 
the  little  shop  owned  were  lighted, 
but  even  under  their  flare  the  articles 
in  the  window — the  one  or  two 
once  cheaply  gaudy  dresses  and 


A    TO-MORROW 

shawls  and  men's  garments  —  hung 
in  the  haze  like  the  dreary,  dangling 
ghosts  of  things  recently  executed. 
Among  watches  and  forlorn  pieces 
of  old-fashioned  jewelry  and  odds  and 
ends,  the  pistol  lay  against  the  folds 
of  a  dirty  gauze  shawl.  There  it 
was.  It  would  have  been  annoying 
if  someone  else  had  been  beforehand 
and  had  bought  it. 

Inside  the  shop  more  dangling 
spectres  hung  and  the  place  was 
almost  dark.  It  was  a  shabby  pawn- 
shop, and  the  man  lounging  behind 
the  counter  was  a  shabby  man  with 
an  unshaven,  unamiable  face. 

"  I  want  to  look  at  that  pistol  in 
the  right-hand  corner  of  your  win- 
dow," Antony  Dart  said. 

The  pawnbroker  uttered  a  sound 

*7 


THE    DAWN    OF 

something  between  a  half-laugh  and 
a  grunt.  He  took  the  weapon  from 
the  window. 

Antony  Dart  examined  it  criti- 
cally. He  must  make  quite  sure  of 
it.-  He  made  no  further  remark. 
He  felt  he  had  done  with  speech. 

Being  told  the  price  asked  for  the 
purchase,  he  drew  out  his  purse  and 
took  the  money  from  it.  After 
making  the  payment  he  noted  that 
he  still  possessed  a  five-pound  note 
and  some  sovereigns.  There  passed 
through  his  mind  a  wonder  as  to 
who  would  spend  it.  The  most 
decent  thing,  perhaps,  would  be  to 
give  it  away.  If  it  was  in  his  room 
—  to-morrow  —  the  parish  would  not 
bury  him,  and  it  would  be  safer  that 
the  parish  should. 


A    TO-MORROW 

He  was  thinking  of  this  as  he 
left  the  shop  and  began  to  cross  the 
street.  Because  his  mind  was  wan- 
dering he  was  less  watchful.  Sud- 
denly a  rubber-tired  hansom,  moving 
without  sound,  appeared  immedi- 
ately in  his  path  —  the  horse's  head 
loomed  up  above  his  own.  He  made 
the  inevitable  involuntary  whirl  aside 
to  move  out  of  the  way,  the  hansom 
passed,  and  turning  again,  he  went 
on.  His  movement  had  been  too 
swift  to  allow  of  his  realizing  the 
direction  in  which  his  turn  had  been 
made.  He  was  wholly  unaware  that 
when  he  crossed  the  street  he  crossed 
backward  instead  of  forward.  He 
turned  a  corner  literally  feeling  his 
way,  went  on,  turned  another,  and 
after  walking  the  length  of  the  street, 

*9 


THE    DAWN    OF 

suddenly  understood  that  he  was  in 
a  strange  place  and  had  lost  his 
bearings. 

This  was  exactly  what  had  hap- 
pened to  people  on  the  day  of  the 
memorable  fog  of  three  years  before. 
He  had  heard  them  talking  of  such 
experiences,  and  of  the  curious  and 
baffling  sensations  they  gave  rise  to 
in  the  brain.  Now  he  understood 
them.  He  could  not  be  far  from 
his  lodgings,  but  he  felt  like  a  man 
who  was  blind,  and  who  had  been 
turned  out  of  the  path  he  knew. 
He  had  not  the  resource  of  the  peo- 
ple whose  stories  he  had  heard.  He 
would  not  stop  and  address  anyone. 
There  could  be  no  certainty  as  to 
whom  he  might  find  himself  speak- 
ing to.  I  He  would  speak  to  no  one. 


A    TO-MORROW 

He  would  wander  about  until  he 
came  upon  some  clew.  Even  if  he 
came  upon  none,  the  fog  would 
surely  lift  a  little  and  become  a  trifle 
less  dense  in  course  of  time.  He 
drew  up  the  collar  of  his  overcoat, 
pulled  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes 
and  went  on  —  his  hand  on  the  thing 
he  had  thrust  into  a  pocket. 

He  did  not  find  his  clew  as  he 
had  hoped,  and  instead  of  lifting  the 
fog  grew  heavier.  He  found  him- 
self at  last  no  longer  striving  for  any 
end,  but  rambling  along  mechani- 
cally, feeling  like  a  man  in  a  dream 
—  a  nightmare.  Once  he  recog- 
nized a  weird  suggestion  in  the  mys- 
tery about  him.  To-morrow  might 
one  be  wandering  about  aimlessly  in 
some  such  haze.  He  hoped  not. 

3» 


' 

THE    DAWN    OF 

His  lodgings  were  not  far  from 
the  Embankment,  and  he  knew  at 
last  that  he  was  wandering  along  it, 
and  had  reached  one  of  the  bridges. 
His  mood  led  him  to  turn  in  upon 
it,  and  when  he  reached  an  embra- 
sure to  stop  near  it  and  lean  upon  the 
parapet  looking  down.  He  could 
not  see  the  water,  the  fog  was  too 
dense,  but  he  could  hear  some  faint 
splashing  against  stones.  He  had 
taken  no  food  and  was  rather  faint. 
What  a  strange  thing  it  was  to  feel 
faint  for  want  of  food  —  to  stand 
alone,  cut  off  from  every  other  hu- 
man being  —  everything  done  for. 
No  wonder  that  sometimes,  particu- 
larly on  such  days  as  these,  there 
were  plunges  made  from  the  parapet 
—  no  wonder.  He  leaned  farther 

3* 


A    TO-MORROW 

over  and  strained  his  eyes  to  see 
some  gleam  of  water  through  the 
yellowness.  But  it  was  not  to  be 
done.  He  was  thinking  the  inevi- 
table thing,  of  course ;  but  such  a 
plunge  would  not  do  for  him.  The 
other  thing  would  destroy  all  traces. 

As  he  drew  back  he  heard  some- 
thing fall  with  the  solid  tinkling 
sound  of  coin  on  the  flag  pavement. 
When  he  had  been  in  the  pawn- 
broker's shop  he  had  taken  the  gold 
from  his  purse  and  thrust  it  carelessly 
into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  thinking 
that  it  would  be  easy  to  reach  when 
he  chose  to  give  it  to  one  beggar 
or  another,  if  he  should  see  some 
wretch  who  would  be  the  better  for 
it.  Some  movement  he  had  made 
in  bending  had  caused  a  sovereign  to 

33 


THE    DAWN    OF 

slip  out  and  it  had  fallen  upon  the 
stones. 

He  did  not  intend  to  pick  it  up, 
but  in  the  moment  in  which  he 
stood  looking  down  at  it  he  heard 
close  to  him  a  shuffling  movement. 
What  he  had  thought  a  bundle  of 
rags  or  rubbish  covered  with  sacking 
—  some  tramp's  deserted  or  forgotten 
belongings  —  was  stirring.  It  was 
alive,  and  as  he  bent  to  look  at  it  the 
sacking  divided  itself,  and  a  small 
head,  covered  with  a  shock  of  bril- 
liant red  hair,  thrust  itself  out,  a 
shrewd,  small  face  turning  to  look 
up  at  him  slyly  with  deep-set  black 
eyes. 

It  was  a  human  girl  creature  about 
twelve  years  old. 

"Are  yer   goin'    to   do    it?"    she 

34 


A    TO-MORROW 

said  in  a  hoarse,  street-strained  voice. 
"  Yer  would  be  a  fool  if  yer  did  — 
with  as  much  as  that  on  yer." 

She  pointed  with  a  reddened, 
chapped,  and  dirty  hand  at  the 
sovereign. 

"  Pick  it  up,"  he  said.  "  You  may 
have  it." 

Her  wild  shuffle  forward  was  an 
actual  leap.  The  hand  made  a 
snatching  clutch  at  the  coin.  She 
was  evidently  afraid  that  he  was 
either  not  in  earnest  or  would  re- 
pent. The  next  second  she  was  on 
her  feet  and  ready  for  flight. 

"  Stop,"  he  said ;  "  I  've  got  more 
to  give  away." 

She  hesitated  —  not  believing 
him,  yet  feeling  it  madness  to  lose  a 
chance. 

35 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"More!"  she  gasped.  Then  she 
drew  nearer  to  him,  and  a  singular 
change  came  upon  her  face.  It  was 
a  change  which  made  her  look  oddly 
human. 

"  Gawd,  mister  !  "  she  said.  "  Yer 
can  give  away  a  quid  like  it  was 
nothin'  -  -  an*  yer  've  got  more  —  an* 
yer  goin*  to  do  that  —  jes  cos  yer  'ad 
a  bit  too  much  lars  night  tin*  there  's 
a  fog  this  mornin* !  You  take  it 
straight  from  me  —  don't  yer  do  it. 
I  give  yer  that  tip  for  the  «uvrink." 

She  was,  for  her  years,  so  ugly  and 
so  ancient,  and  hardened  in  voice  and 
skin  and  manner  that  she  fascinated 
him.  Not  that  a  man  who  has  no 
To-morrow  in  view  is  likely  to  be  par- 
ticularly conscious  of  mental  proces- 
ses. He  was  done  for,  but  he  stood 
36 


A    TO-MORROW 

and  stared  at  her.  What  part  of  the 
Power  moving  the  scheme  of  the 
universe  stood  near  and  thrust  him 
on  in  the  path  designed  he  did  not 
know  then  —  perhaps  never  did.  He 
was  still  holding  on  to  the  thing  in  his 
pocket,  but  he  spoke  to  her  again. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he'asked 
glumly. 

She  sidled  nearer,  her  sharp  eyes 
on  his  face. 

"  I  bin  watchin*  yer,"  she  said. 
"  I  sat  down  and  pulled  the  sack 
over  me  'ead  to  breathe  inside  it  an* 
get  a  bit  warm.  An*  I  see  yer  come. 
I  knowed  wot  yer  was  after,  I  did. 
I  watched  yer  through  a  'ole  in  me 
sack.  I  wasn't  goin'  to  call  a  cop- 
per. I  should  n't  want  ter  be  stopped 
meself  if  I  made  up  me  mind.  I 

37 


THE    DAWN    OF 

seed  a  gal  dragged  out  las'  week  an* 
it  'd  a  broke  yer  'art  to  see  'er  tear  'er 
clothes  an'  scream.  Wot  business 
'ad  they  preventin'  'er  goin'  off 
quiet?  I  wouldn't  'a'  stopped  ycr 
—  but  w'en  the  quid  fell,  that  made 
it  different." 

"I  — "  he  said,  feeling  the  fool- 
ishness of  the  statement,  but  making 
it,  nevertheless,  "  I  am  ill." 

"  Course  yer  ill.  It 's  yer  'ead. 
Come  along  er  me  an'  get  a  cup  er 
cawfee  at  a  stand,  an'  buck  up.  If 
yer  've  give  me  that  quid  straight  — 
wish-yer-may-die — I'll  go  with  yer 
an'  get  a  cup  myself.  I  ain't  'ad  a  bite 
since  yesterday  —  an'  't  wa'n't  nothin' 
but  a  slice  o'  polony  sossidge  I  found 
on  a  dust-' cap.  Come  on,  mister." 

She     pulled     his    coat    with     her 


A    TO-MORROW 

cracked  hand.  He  glanced  down  at 
it  mechanically,  and  saw  that  some 
of  the  fissures  had  bled  and  the 
roughened  surface  was  smeared  with 
the  blood.  They  stood  together  in 
the  small  space  in  which  the  fog 
enclosed  them  —  he  and  she  —  the 
man  with  no  To-morrow  and  the 
girl  thing  who  seemed  as  old  as 
himself,  with  her  sharp,  small  nose 
and  chin,  her  sharp  eyes  and  voice 
—  and  yet  —  perhaps  the  fogs  en- 
closing did  it  —  something  drew 
them  together  in  an  uncanny  way. 
Something  made  him  forget  the  lost 
clew  to  the  lodging-house  —  some- 
thing made  him  turn  and  go  with 
her  —  a  thing  led  in  the  dark. 

"  How  can  you  find  your  way  ? " 
he  said.     "  I  lost  mine." 

39 


THE    DAWN  OF 

"There  ain't  no  fog  can  lose  me," 
she  answered,  shuffling  along  by  his 
side ;  "  'sides,  it 's  goin'  to  lift. 
Look  at  that  man  comin'  to'ards  us." 

It  was  true  that  they  could  see 
through  the  orange-colored  mist  the 
approaching  figure  of  a  man  who 
was  at  a  yard's  distance  from  them. 
Yes,  it  was  lifting  slightly  —  at  least 
enough  to  allow  of  one's  making  a 
guess  at  the  direction  in  which  one 
moved. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Apple  Blossom  Court,"  she  an- 
swered. "  The  cawfee-stand  's  in  a 
street  near  it  —  and  there's  a  shop 
where  I  can  buy  things." 

"  Apple    Blossom     Court !  "     b* 
ejaculated.     "  What  a  name  I  " 
40 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  There  ain't  no  apple-blossoms 
there,"  chuckling;  "nor  no  smell 
of  'em.  'T  ain't  as  nice  as  its  nime 
is  —  Apple  Blossom  Court  ain't." 

"  What  do  you  want  to  buy  ?  A 
pair  of  shoes  ? "  The  shoes  her 
naked  feet  were  thrust  into  were  lep- 
rous-looking things  through  which 
nearly  all  her  toes  protruded.  But 
she  chuckled  when  he  spoke. 

"  No,  I  'm  goin*  to  buy  a  di'mond 
tirarer  to  go  to  the  opery  in,"  she 
said,  dragging  her  old  sack  closer 
round  her  neck.  "  I  ain't  ad  a  noo 
un  since  I  went  to  the  last  Drorin'- 
room." 

It  was  impudent  street  chaff,  but 
there  was  cheerful  spirit  in  it,  and 
cheerful  spirit  has  some  occult  ef- 
fect upon  morbidity.  Antony  Dart 


THE    DAWN    OF 

did  not  smile,  but  he  felt  a  faint  stir- 
ring of  curiosity,  which  was,  after 
all,  not  a  bad  thing  for  a  man  who 
had  not  felt  an  interest  for  a  year. 

"  What  is  it  you  are  going  to 
buy?" 

"  I  'm  goin'  to  fill  me  stummick 
fust,"  with  a  grin  of  elation.  "Three 
thick  slices  o'  bread  an'  drippin'  an' 
a  mug  o'  cawfee.  An'  then  I  'm 
goin'  to  get  sumethin'  'earty  to  carry 
to  Polly.  She  ain't  no  good,  pore 
thing ! " 

"Who  is  she ?" 

Stopping  a  moment  to  drag  up  the. 
heel  of  her  dreadful  shoe,  she  an- 
swered him  with  an  unprejudiced 
directness  which  might  have  been 
appalling  if  he  had  been  in  the  mood 
to  be  appalled. 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  Ain't  eighteen,  an*  tryin'  to  earn 
'er  livin'  on  the  street.  She  ain't 
made  for  it.  Little  country  thing, 
allus  frightened  to  death  an'  ready 
to  bust  out  cryin'.  Gents  ain't  goin' 
to  stand  that.  A  lot  of  'em  wants 
cheerin*  up  as  much  as  she  does. 
Gent  as  was  in  liquor  last  night 
knocked  'er  down  an*  give  'er  a 
black  eye.  'T  wan't  ill  feelin',  but 
he  lost  his  temper,  an'  give  'er  a 
knock  casual.  She  can't  go  out 
to-night,  an'  she's  been  'uddled  up 
all  day  cryin'  for  'er  mother." 
"  Where  is  her  mother  ?  " 
"In  the  country — on  a  farm. 
Polly  took  a  place  in  a  lodgin'-'ouse 
an'  got  in  trouble.  The  biby  was 
dead,  an'  when  she  come  out  o' 
Queen  Charlotte's  she  was  took  in  by 

43 


THE    DAWN    OF 

a  woman  an*  kep'.  She  kicked  'er 
out  in  a  week  'cos  of  her  cryin'. 
The  life  did  n't  suit  'er.  I  found  'er 
cryin'  fit  to  split  'er  chist  one  night 
—  corner  o'  Apple  Blossom  Court  — 
an*  I  took  care  of  'er." 

"Where?" 

"  Me  chambers,"  grinning  ;  "  top 
loft  of  a  'ouse  in  the  court.  If  any- 
one else  'd  'ave  it  I  should  be  turned 
out.  It 's  an  'ole,  I  can  tell  yer  — 
but  it's  better  than  sleepin'  under 
the  bridges." 

"  Take  me  to  see  it,"  said  Antony 
Dart.  "  I  want  to  see  the  girl." 

The  words  spoke  themselves.  Why 
should  he  care  to  see  either  cockloft 
or  girl  ?  He  did  not.  He  wanted 
to  go  back  to  his  lodgings  with  that 
which  he  had  come  out  to  buy. 


A    TO-MORROW 

Yet  he  said  this  thing.  His  com- 
panion looked  up  at  him  with  an 
expression  actually  relieved. 

"Would  yer  tike  up  with  'er?" 
with  eager  sharpness,  as  if  confront- 
ing a  simple  business  proposition. 
"  She 's  pretty  an*  clean,  an'  she 
won't  drink  a  drop  o*  nothin'.  If 
she  was  treated  kind  she  'd  be  cheer- 
fler.  She 's  got  a  round  fice  an* 
light  'air  an'  eyes.  'Er  'air  Js  curly. 
P'raps  yer'd  like  'er." 

"  Take  me  to  see  her." 

"She'd  look  better  to-morrow," 
cautiously,  "  when  the  swellin  's  gone 
down  round  'er  eye." 

Dart  started  —  and  it  was  because 
he  had  for  the  last  five  minutes  for- 
gotten something. 

"  I  shall  not  be  here  to-morrow," 

45 


THE    DAWN    OF 

he  said.  His  grasp  upon  the  thing 
in  his  pocket  had  loosened,  and  he 
tightened  it. 

"  I  have  some  more  money  in  my 
purse,"  he  said  deliberately.  "  I 
meant  to  give  it  away  before  going. 
I  want  to  give  it  to  people  who  need 
it  very  much." 

She  gave  him  one  of  the  sly, 
squinting  glances. 

"  Deservin'  cases  ? "  She  put  it  to 
him  in  brazen  mockery. 

"  I  don't  care,"  he  answered  slowly 
and  heavily.  "  I  don't  care  a  damn." 

Her  face  changed  exactly  as  he 
had  seen  it  change  on  the  bridge 
when  she  had  drawn  nearer  to  him. 
Its  ugly  hardness  suddenly  looked 
human.  And*  that  she  could  look 

human  was  fantastic. 
46 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  'Ow  much  'ave  yer  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  'Ow  much  is  it?" 

"  About  ten  pounds." 

She  stopped  and  stared  at  him 
with  open  mouth. 

"  Gawd  !  "  she  broke  out ;  "  ten 
pounds  'd  send  Apple  Blossom  Com 
to  'eving.  Leastways,  it  'd  take  some 
of  it  out  o'  'ell." 

"  Take  me  to  it,"  he  said  roughly. 
"  Take  me." 

She  began  to  walk  quickly,  breath- 
ing fast.  The  fog  was  lighter,  and 
it  was  no  longer  a  blinding  thing. 

A  question  occurred  to  Dart. 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  me  to  give 
the  money  to  you  ? "  he  said  bluntly. 

"  Dunno,"  she  answered  as  bluntly. 
But  after  taking  a  few  steps  farther 
she  spoke  again. 

47 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"  I  'm  cheerfler  than  most  of  'em," 
she  elaborated.  "  If  yer  born  cheer- 
fle  yer  can  stand  things.  When  I 
gets  a  job  nussin'  women's  bibles 
they  don't  cry  when  I  'andles  'em. 
I  gets  many  a  bite  an'  a  copper  'cos 
o'  that.  Folks  likes  yer.  I  shall 
get  on  better  than  Polly  when  I  'm 
old  enough  to  go  on  the  street." 

The  organ  of  whose  lagging,  sick 
pumpings  Antony  Dart  had  scarcely 
been  aware  for  months  gave  a  sud- 
den leap  in  his  breast.  His  blood 
actually  hastened  its  pace,  and  ran 
through  his  veins  instead  of  crawling 
—  a  distinct  physical  effect  of  an 
actual  mental  condition.  It  was 
produced  upon  him  by  the  mere 
matter-of-fact  ordinariness  of  her 
tone.  He  had  never  been  a  senti- 


A    TO-MORROW 

mental  man,  and  had  long  ceased  to 
be  a  feeling  one,  but  at  that  moment 
something  emotional  and  normal 
happened  to  him. 

"  You  expect  to  live  in  that  way  ? " 
he  said. 

"  Ain't  nothin'  else  fer  me  to  do. 
Wisht  I  was  better  lookin*.  But 
I  've  got  a  lot  of  'air/*  clawing  her 
mop,  "  an*  it  *s  red.  One  day,** 
chuckling,  "  a  gent  ses  to  me  —  he 
ses :  '  Oh  !  yer  '11  do.  Yer  an  ugly 
little  devil  —  but  ye  are  a  devil.'  * 

She  was  leading  him  through  a 
narrow,  filthy  back  street,  and  she 
stopped,  grinning  up  in  his  face. 

"  I  say,  mister,*'  she  wheedled, 
"  let 's  stop  at  the  cawfee-stand. 
It's  up  this  way.'* 

When   he   acceded   and   followed 

49 


THE    DAWN    OF 

her,  she  quickly  turned  a  corner. 
They  were  in  another  lane  thick 
with  fog,  which  flared  with  the 
flame  of  torches  stuck  in  costers'  bar- 
rows which  stood  here  and  there  — 
barrows  with  fried  fish  upon  them, 
barrows  with  second-hand-looking 
vegetables  and  others  piled  with 
more  than  second-hand-looking  gar- 
ments. Trade  was  not  driving,  but 
near  one  or  two  of  them  dirty,  ill- 
used  looking  women,  a  man  or  so, 
and  a  few  children  stood.  At  a 
corner  which  led  into  a  black  hole 
of  a  court,  a  coffee-stand  was  sta- 
tioned, in  charge  of  a  burly  ruffian  in 
corduroys. 

"  Come  along,"  said  the  girl. 
"There  it  is.  It  ain't  strong,  but 
it's'ot." 

50 


A    TO-MORROW 

She  sidled  up  to  the  stand,  draw- 
ing Dart  with  her,  as  if  glad  of  his 
protection. 

"  'Ello,  Barney,"  she  said.  "  'Ere  's 
a  gent  warnts  a  mug  o'  yer  best. 
I  've  'ad  a  bit  o'  luck,  an*  I  wants 
one  mesself." 

"  Garn,"  growled  Barney.  "  You 
an*  yer  luck !  Gent  may  want  a 
mug,  but  y'd  show  yer  money  fust." 

"  Strewth  !  I  've  got  it.  Y'  aint  got 
the  chinge  fer  wot  I  'ave  in  me  'and 
'ere.  'As  'e,  mister?" 

"  Show  it,"  taunted  the  man,  and 
then  turning  to  Dart.  "Yer  wants 
a  mug  o*  cawfee  ?  " 

"Yes." 

The  girl  held  out  her  hand  cau- 
tiously —  the  piece  of  gold  lying 
upon  its  palm. 

5' 


THE    DAWN    OF 

«  Look  'ere,"  she  said. 

There  were  two  or  three  men 
slouching  about  the  stand.  Sud- 
denly a  hand  darted  from  between 
two  of  them  who  stood  nearest,  the 
sovereign  was  snatched,  a  screamed 
oath  from  the  girl  rent  the  thick 
air,  and  a  forlorn  enough  scarecrow 
of  a  young  fellow  sprang  away. 

The  blood  leaped  in  Antony  Dart's 
veins  again  and  he  sprang  after  him 
in  a  wholly  normal  passion  of  indig- 
nation. A  thousand  years  ago  —  as 
it  seemed  to  him  —  he  had  been  a 
good  runner.  This  man  was  not  one, 
and  want  of  food  had  weakened  him. 
Dart  went  after  him  with  strides 
which  astonished  himself.  Up  the 
street,  into  an  alley  and  out  of  it,  a 
dozen  yards  more  and  into  a  court, 


A    TO-MORROW 

and  the  man  wheeled  with  a  hoarse, 
baffled  curse.  The  place  had  no 
outlet. 

"  Hell !  "  was  all  the  creature  said. 

Dart  took  him  by  his  greasy  collar. 
Even  the  brief  rush  had  left  him  feel- 
ing like  a  living  thing  —  which  was 
a  new  sensation. 

"  Give  it  up,"  he  ordered. 

The  thief  looked  at  him  with  a 
half-laugh  and  obeyed,  as  if  he  felt 
the  uselessness  of  a  struggle.  He 
was  not  more  than  twenty-five  years 
old,  and  his  eyes  were  cavernous  with 
want.  He  had  the  face  of  a  man 
who  might  have  belonged  to  a  better 
class.  When  he  had  uttered  the 
exclamation  invoking  the  infernal 
regions  he  had  not  dropped  the 
aspirate. 

53 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"  I  *m  as  hungry  as  she  is,"  he 
raved. 

"Hungry  enough  to  rob  a  child 
beggar  ? "  said  Dart. 

"  Hungry  enough  to  rob  a  starv- 
ing old  woman  —  or  a  baby,"  with 
a  defiant  snort.  "  Wolf  hungry  — 
tiger  hungry  —  hungry  enough  to 
cut  throats." 

He  whirled  himself  loose  and 
leaned  his  body  against  the  wall, 
turning  his  face  toward  it.  Sud- 
denly he  made  a  choking  sound 
and  began  to  sob. 

"  Hell !  "  he  choked.  «  I  '11  give 
it  up!  I'll  give  it  up  !" 

What  a  figure  —  what  a  figure,  as 
he  swung  against  the  blackened  wall, 
his  scarecrow  clothes  hanging  on  him, 
their  once  decent  material  making 

54 

• 


A    TO-MORROW 

their  pinning  together  of 
places,  their  looseness  and  rents  show- 
ing dirty  linen,  more  abject  than  any 
other  squalor  could  have  made  them. 
Antony  Dart's  blood,  still  running 
warm  and  well,  was  doing  its  normal 
work  among  the  brain-cells  which 
had  stirred  so  evilly  through  the  night. 
When  he  had  seized  the  fellow  by 
the  collar,  his  hand  had  left  his 
pocket.  He  thrust  it  into  another 
pocket  and  drew  out  some  silver. 

"  Go  and  get  yourself  some  food," 
he  said.  "  As  much  as  you  can  eat. 
Then  go  and  wait  for  me  at  the  place 
they  call  Apple  Blossom  Court,  I 
don't  know  where  it  is,  but  I  am 
going  there.  I  want  to  hear  how 
you  came  to  this.  Will  you  come  ? " 

The  thief  lurched  away  from  the 

55 


THE    DAWN    OF 

wall  and  toward  him.  He  stared  up 
into  his  eyes  through  the  fog.  The 
tears  had  smeared  his  cheekbones. 

"  God  !  "  he  said.  "  Will  I  come? 
Look  and  see  if  I  '11  come."  Dart 
looked. 

"  Yes,  you  '11  come,"  he  answered, 
and  he  gave  him  the  money.  "  I  'm 
going  back  to  the  coffee-stand." 

The  thief  stood  staring  after  him 
as  he  went  out  of  the  court.  Dart 
was  speaking  to  himself. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  did  it,"  he 
said.  "  But  the  thing  had  to  be 
done." 

In  the  street  he  turned  into  he 
came  upon  the  robbed  girl,  running, 
panting,  and  crying.  She  uttered  a 
shout  and  flung  herself  upon  him, 
clutching  his  coat. 
56 


' God! "  he  cried.     "  Will  I  come? ' 


A  TO-MORROW 

"  Gawd  !  "  she  sobbed  hysterically, 
"  I  thort  I  'd  lost  yer  !  I  thort  I  'd 
lost  all  of  it,  I  did  !  Strewth  !  I  'm 
glad  I  've  found  yer  — "  and  she 
stopped,  choking  with  her  sobs  and 
sniffs,  rubbing  her  face  in  her  sack. 

"Here  is  your  sovereign,"  Dart 
said,  handing  it  to  her. 

She  dropped  the  corner  of  the 
sack  and  looked  up  with  a  queer 
laugh. 

"  Did  yer  find  a  copper  ?  Did  yer 
give  him  in  charge?" 

"  No,"  answered  Dart.  "  He  was 
worse  off  than  you.  He  was  starving. 
I  took  this  from  him ;  but  I  gave 
him  some  money  and  told  him  to 
meet  us  at  Apple  Blossom  Court." 

She  stopped  short  and  drew  back 
a  pace  to  stare  up  at  him. 

57 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"  Well,"  she  gave  forth,  "  y'  are  a 
queer  one ! " 

And  yet  in  the  amazement  on  her 
face  he  perceived  a  remote  dawning 
of  an  understanding  of  the  meaning 
of  the  thing  he  had  done. 

He  had  spoken  like  a  man  in  a 
dream.  He  felt  like  a  man  in  a 
dream,  being  led  in  the  thick  mist 
from  place  to  place.  He  was  led 
back  to  the  coffee-stand,  where  now 
Barney,  the  proprietor,  was  pouring 
out  coffee  for  a  hoarse-voiced  cos- 
ter girl  with  a  draggled  feather  in 
her  hat,  who  greeted  their  arrival 
hilariously. 

"  Hello,  Glad  !  "  she  cried  out. 
"  Got  yer  suvrink  back  ? " 

Glad  —  it  seemed  to  be  the  crea- 
ture's wild  name  —  nodded,  but  held 
58 


A    TO-MORROW 

close  to  her  companion's  side,  clutch- 
ing his  coat. 

"  Let's  go  in  there  an'  change  it," 
she  said,  nodding  toward  a  small  pork 
and  ham  shop  near  by.  "  An*  then 
yer  can  take  care  of  it  for  me." 

"  What  did  she  call  you  ? "  Antony 
Dart  asked  her  as  they  went. 

"  Glad.  Don't  know  as  I  ever  Jad 
a  nime  o'  me  own,  but  a  little  cove 
as  went  once  to  the  pantermine  told 
me  about  a  young  lady  as  was  Fairy 
Queen  an'  'er  name  was  Gladys  Bev- 
erly St.  John,  so  I  called  mesself  that. 
No  one  never  said  it  all  at  onct  — 
they  don't  never  say  nothin'  but 
Glad.  I  'm  glad  enough  this  morn- 
in',"  chuckling  again,  "  'avin'  the 
luck  to  come  up  with  you,  mister. 
Never  had  luck  like  it  'afore." 

59 


THE    DAWN    OF 

They  went  into  the  pork  and  ham 
shop  and  changed  the  sovereign. 
There  was  cooked  food  in  the  win- 
dows—  roast  pork  and  boiled  ham 
and  corned  beef.  She  bought  slices 
of  pork  and  beef,  and  of  suet-pud- 
ding with  a  few  currants  sprinkled 
through  it. 

"  Will  yer  'elp  me  to  carry  it  ? " 
she  inquired.  "  I  '11  'ave  to  get  a 
few  pen*  worth  o*  coal  an*  wood  an* 
a  screw  o'  tea  an*  sugar.  My  wig, 
wot  a  feed  me  an*  Polly  '11  'ave !  " 

As  they  returned  to  the  coffee- 
stand  she  broke  more  than  once  into 
a  hop  of  glee.  Barney  had  changed 
his  mind  concerning  her.  A  solid 
sovereign  which  must  be  changed 
and  a  companion  whose  shabby  gen- 
tility was  absolute  grandeur  when 
60 


A    TO-MORROW 

compared  with  his  present  surround- 
ings made  a  difference. 

She  received  her  mug  of  coffee  and 
thick  slice  of  bread  and  dripping  with 
a  grin,  and  swallowed  the  hot  sweet 
liquid  down  in  ecstatic  gulps. 

"  Ain't  I  in  luck  ? "  she  said,  hand- 
ing her  mug  back  when  it  was  empty. 
"  Gi*  me  another,  Barney." 

Antony  Dart  drank  coffee  also  and 
ate  bread  and  dripping.  The  coffee 
was  hot  and  the  bread  and  dripping, 
dashed  with  salt,  quite  eatable.  He 
had  needed  food  and  felt  the  better 
for  it. 

"  Come  on,  mister,"  said  Glad, 
when  their  meal  was  ended.  "  I  want 
to  get  back  to  Polly,  an*  there 's  coal 
and  bread  and  things  to  buy." 

She  hurried  him  along,  breaking 

61 


THE    DAWN    OF 

her  pace  with  hops  at  intervals.  She 
darted  into  dirty  shops  and  brought 
out  things  screwed  up  in  paper.  She 
went  last  into  a  cellar  and  returned 
carrying  a  small  sack  of  coal  over  her 
shoulders. 

"Bought  sack  an*  all,"  she  said 
elatedly.  "  A  sack 's  a  good  thing 
to  'ave." 

"  Let  me  carry  it  for  you,"  said 
Antony  Dart 

"  Spile  yer  coat,"  with  her  sidelong 
upward  glance. 

"  I  don't  care,"  he  answered.  "  I 
don't  care  a  damn." 

The  final  expletive  was  totally  un- 
necessary, but  it  meant  a  thing  he 
did  not  say.  Whatsoever  was  thrust- 
ing him  this  way  and  that,  speaking 

through  his  speech,  leading  him  to 
62 


A    TO-MORROW 

do  things  he  had  not  dreamed  of 
doing,  should  have  its  will  with  him. 
He  had  been  fastened  to  the  skirts  of 
this  beggar  imp  and  he  would  go  on 
to  the  end  and  do  what  was  to  be  done 
this  day.  It  was  part  of  the  dream. 

The  sack  of  coal  was  over  his 
shoulder  when  they  turned  into 
Apple  Blossom  Court.  It  would 
have  been  a  black  hole  on  a  sunny 
day,  and  now  it  was  like  Hades,  lit 
grimly  by  a  gas-jet  or  two,  small 
and  flickering,  with  the  orange  haze 
about  them.  Filthy,  flagging,  murky 
doorways,  broken  steps  and  broken 
windows  stuffed  with  rags,  and  the 
smell  of  the  sewers  let  loose  had 
Apple  Blossom  Court. 

Glad,  with  the  wealth  of  the  pork 
and  ham  shop  and  other  riches  in 


THE    DAWN    OF 

her  arms,  entered  a  repellent  door- 
way in  a  spirit  of  great  good  cheer 
and  Dart  followed  her.  Past  a  room 
where  a  drunken  woman  lay  sleeping 
with  her  head  on  a  table,  a  child 
pulling  at  her  dress  and  crying,  up  a 
stairway  with  broken  balusters  and 
breaking  steps,  through  a  landing, 
upstairs  again,  and  up  still  farther 
until  they  reached  the  top.  Glad 
stopped  before  a  door  and  shook 
the  handle,  crying  out : 

"  'S  only  me,  Polly.  You  can 
open  it."  She  added  to  Dart  in  an 
undertone  :  "  She  'as  to  keep  it  locked. 
No  knowin'  who  'd  want  to  get  in. 
Polly,'*  shaking  the  door-handle  again, 
"Polly  's  only  me." 

The  door  opened  slowly.  On  the 
other  side  of  it  stood  a  girl  with  a 


A    TO-MORROW 

dimpled  round  face  which  was  quite 
pale ;  under  one  of  her  childishly 
vacant  blue  eyes  was  a  discoloration, 
and  her  curly  fair  hair  was  tucked  up 
on  the  top  of  her  head  in  a  knot. 
As  she  took  in  the  fact  of  Antony 
Dart's  presence  her  chin  began  to 
quiver. 

"I  ain't  fit  to  —  to  see  no  one,'* 
she  stammered  pitifully.  "  Why  did 
you,  Glad  —  why  did  you  ? " 

"  Ain't  no  'arm  in  '//#,"  said  Glad. 
"  'E  's  one  o'  the  friendly  ones.  'E 
give  me  a  suvrink.  Look  wot  I  've 
got,"  hopping  about  as  she  showed 
her  parcels. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid  of  me," 
Antony    Dart    said.       He    paused    a 
second,  staring  at  her,  and  suddenly 
added,  "  Poor  little  wretch ! n 
65 


THE    DAWN    OF 

Her  look  was  so  scared  and  uncer- 
tain a  thing  that  he  walked  away 
from  her  and  threw  the  sack  of  coal 
on  the  hearth.  A  small  grate  with 
broken  bars  hung  loosely  in  the  fire- 
place, a  battered  tin  kettle  tilted 
drunkenly  near  it.  A  mattress,  from 
the  holes  in  whose  ticking  straw 
bulged,  lay  on  the  floor  in  a  corner, 
with  some  old  sacks  thrown  over  it. 
Glad  had,  without  doubt,  borrowed 
her  shoulder  covering  from  the  col- 
lection. The  garret  was  as  cold  as 
the  grave,  and  almost  as  dark ;  the 
fog  hung  in  it  thickly.  There  were 
crevices  enough  through  which  it 
could  penetrate. 

Antony  Dart  knelt  down  on  the 
hearth  and  drew  matches  from  his 
pocket. 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  We  ought  to  have  brought  some 
paper,"  he  said. 

Glad  ran  forward. 

"  Wot  a  gent  ye  are !  "  she  cried. 
"  Y'  ain't  never  goin'  to  light  it  ? " 

"  Yes  " 

She  ran  back  to  the  rickety  table 
and  collected  the  scraps  of  paper 
which  had  held  her  purchases. 
They  were  small,  but  useful. 

"  That  wot  was  round  the  sau- 
sage an'  the  puddin's  greasy,"  she 
exulted. 

Polly  hung  over  the  table  and 
trembled  at  the  sight  of  meat  and 
bread.  Plainly,  she  did  not  under- 
stand what  was  happening.  The 
greased  paper  set  light  to  the  wood, 
and  the  wood  to  the  coal.  All  three 

flared  and  blazed   with  a   sound   of 

67 


THE    DAWN    OF 

cheerful  crackling.  The  blaze  threw 
out  its  glow  as  finely  as  if  it  had  been 
set  alight  to  warm  a  better  place. 
The  wonder  of  a  fire  is  like  the 
wonder  of  a  soul.  This  one  changed 
the  murk  and  gloom  to  brightness, 
and  the  deadly  damp  and  cold  to 
warmth.  It  drew  the  girl  Polly 
from  the  table  despite  her  fears. 
She  turned  involuntarily,  made  two 
steps  toward  it,  and  stood  gazing 
while  its  light  played  on  her  face. 
Glad  whirled  and  ran  to  the  hearth. 

"Ye've  put  on  a  lot,"  she  cried; 
"but,  oh,  my  Gawd,  don't  it  warm 
yer  !  Come  on,  Polly  —  come  on." 

She  dragged  out  a  wooden  stool, 
an  empty  soap-box,  and  bundled  the 
sacks  into  a  heap  to  be  sat  upon.  She 
swept  the  things  from  the  table  and 


68 


A    TO-MORROW 

set  them  in  their  paper  wrappings  on 
the  floor. 

"  Let 's  all  sit  down  close  to  it  — 
close,'*  she  said,  "  an*  get  warm  an' 
eat,  an'  eat." 

She  was  the  leaven  which  leavened 
the  lump  of  their  humanity.  What 
this  leaven  is  —  who  has  found  out  ? 
But  she  —  little  rat  of  the  gutter  — 
was  formed  of  it,  and  her  mere  pure 
animal  joy  in  the  temporary  animal 
comfort  of  the  moment  stirred  and 
uplifted  them  from  their  depths. 


THE    DAWN    OF 


III 

drew  near  and  sat  upon 
the  substitutes  for  seats  in  a 
circle  —  and  the  fire  threw  up  flame 
and  made  a  glow  in  the  fog  hanging 
in  the  black  hole  of  a  room. 

It  was  Glad  who  set  the  battered 
kettle  on  and  when  it  boiled  made 
tea.  The  other  two  watched  her, 
being  under  her  spell.  She  handed 
out  slices  of  bread  and  sausage  and 
pudding  on  bits  of  paper.  Polly  fed 
with  tremulous  haste ;  Glad  herself 
with  rejoicing  and  exulting  in  flavors. 
Antony  Dart  ate  bread  and  meat  as 
he  had  eaten  the  bread  and  dripping 
at  the  stall  —  accepting  his  normal 

hunger  as  part  of  the  dream. 

7o 


A    TO-MORROW 

Suddenly  Glad  paused  in  the  midst 
of  a  huge  bite. 

"  Mister,"  she  said,  "  p'raps  that 
cove's  waitin'  fer  yer.  Let's  'ave 
'im  in.  I  '11  go  and  fetch  'im." 

She  was  getting  up,  but  Dart  was 
on  his  feet  first. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said.  "  He  is 
expecting  me  and  —  " 

"  Aw,"  said  Glad,  "  lemme  go 
along  o*  yer,  mister — jest  to  show 
there's  no  ill  feelin'." 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered. 

It  was  she  who  led,  and  he  who 
followed.  At  the  door  she  stopped 
and  looked  round  with  a  grin. 

"Keep  up  the  fire,  Polly,"  she 
threw  back.  "  Ain't  it  warm  and 
cheerful?  It'll  do  the  cove  good  to 
see  it." 

71 


THE    DAWN    OF 

She  led  the  way  down  the  black, 
unsafe  stairway.  She  always  led. 

Outside  the  fog  had  thickened 
again,  but  she  went  through  it  as  if 
she  could  see  her  way. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  court  the 
thief  was  standing,  leaning  against 
the  wall  with  fevered,  unhopeful 
waiting  in  his  eyes.  He  moved 
miserably  when  he  saw  the  girl,  and 
she  called  out  to  reassure  him. 

"  I  ain't  up  to  no  'arm,"  she 
said;  "I  on'y  come  with  the  gent." 

Antony  Dart  spoke  to  him. 

"Did  you  get  food?" 

The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  I  turned  faint  after  you  left  me, 
and  when  I  came  to  I  was  afraid  I 
might  miss  you,"  he  answered.  "  I 
daren't  lose  my  chance.  I  bought 


A    TO-M.ORROW 

some  bread  and  stuffed  it  in  my 
pocket.  I  've  been  eating  it  while 
I  Ve  stood  here." 

"  Come  back  with  us,"  said  Dart. 
"  We  are  in  a  place  where  we  have 
some  food." 

He  spoke  mechanically,  and  was 
aware  that  he  did  so.  He  was  a 
pawn  pushed  about  upon  the  board 
of  this  day's  life. 

"  Come  on,"  said  the  girl.  "  Yer 
can  get  enough  to  last  fer  three 
days." 

She  guided  them  back  through  the 
fog  until  they  entered  the  murky 
doorway  again.  Then  she  almost 
ran  up  the  staircase  to  the  room  they 
had  left. 

When  the  door  opened  the  thief 
fell  back  a  pace  as  before  an  unex- 

73 


THE    DAWN    OF 

pected  thing.  It  was  the  flare  of 
firelight  which  struck  upon  his  eyes. 
He  passed  his  hand  over  them. 

"A  fire!"  he  said.  "I  haven't 
seen  one  for  a  week.  Coming  out 
of  the  blackness  it  gives  a  man  a 
start." 

Improvident  joy  gleamed  in  Glad's 
eyes. 

"We'll  be  warm  onct,"  she 
chuckled,  "  if  we  ain't  never  warm 
agaen." 

She  drew  her  circle  about  the 
hearth  again.  The  thief  took  the 
place  next  to  her  and  she  handed  out 
food  to  him  —  a  big  slice  of  meat, 
bread,  a  thick  slice  of  pudding. 

"  Fill  yerself  up,"  she  said.  "  Then 
ye  '11  feel  like  yer  can  talk." 

The  man  tried  to  eat  his  food  with 

74 


A  TO-MORROW 

decorum,  some  recollection  of  the 
habits  of  better  days  restraining  him, 
but  starved  nature  was  too  much  for 
him.  His  hands  shook,  his  eyes 
filled,  his  teeth  tore.  The  rest  of 
the  circle  tried  not  to  look  at  him. 
Glad  and  Polly  occupied  themselves 
with  their  own  food. 

Antony  Dart  gazed  at  the  fire. 
Here  he  sat  warming  himself  in  a 
loft  with  a  beggar,  a  thief,  and  a 
helpless  thing  of  the  street.  He  had 
come  out  to  buy  a  pistol  —  its  weight 
still  hung  in  his  overcoat  pocket  — 
and  he  had  reached  this  place  of 
whose  existence  he  had  an  hour  ago 
not  dreamed.  Each  step  which  had 
led  him  had  seemed  a  simple,  inevi- 
table thing,  for  which  he  had  appar- 
ently been  responsible,  but  which  he 

75 


THE    DAWN    OF 

knew  —  yes,  somehow  he  knew  —  he 
had  of  his  own  volition  neither 
planned  nor  meant.  Yet  here  he  sat 
—  a  part  of  the  lives  of  the  beggar, 
the  thief,  and  the  poor  thing  of 
the  street.  What  did  it  mean  ? 

"Tell  me,"  he  said  to  the  thief, 
"  how  you  came  here." 

By  this  time  the  young  fellow  had 
fed  himself  and  looked  less  like  a 
wolf.  It  was  to  be  seen  now  that 
he  had  blue-gray  eyes  which  were 
dreamy  and  young. 

"  I  have  always  been  inventing 
things,"  he  said  a  little  huskily.  "  I 
did  it  when  I  was  a  child.  I  always 
seemed  to  see  there  might  be  a  way 
of  doing  a  thing  better  —  getting 
more  power.  When  other  boys 

were  playing  games  I  was  sitting  in 
76 


A    TO-MORROW 

corners  trying  to  build  models  out 
of  wire  and  string,  and  old  boxes 
and  tin  cans.  I  often  thought  I  saw 
the  way  to  things,  but  I  was  always 
too  poor  to  get  what  was  needed  to 
work  them  out.  Twice  I  heard  of 
men  making  great  names  and  for- 
tunes because  they  had  been  able  to 
finish  what  I  could  have  finished  if  I 
had  had  a  few  pounds.  It  used  to 
drive  me  mad  and  break  my  heart." 
His  hands  clenched  themselves  and 
his  huskiness  grew  thicker.  "  There 
was  a  man,"  catching  his  breath, 
"  who  leaped  to  the  top  of  the  ladder 
and  set  the  whole  world  talking  and 
writing  —  and  I  had  done  the  thing 
first  —  I  swear  I  had !  It  was  all 
clear  in  my  brain,  and  I  was  half 
mad  with  joy  over  it,  but  I  could 

77 


THE    DAWN    OF 

not  afford  to  work  it  out.  He 
could,  so  to  the  end  of  time  it  will 
be  his"  He  struck  his  fist  upon  his 
knee. 

"  Aw  !  "  The  deep  little  drawl 
was  a  groan  from  Glad. 

"  I  got  a  place  in  an  office  at  last. 
I  worked  hard,  and  they  began  to 
trust  me.  I  —  had  a  new  idea.  It 
was  a  big  one.  I  needed  money  to 
work  it  out.  I  —  I  remembered 
what  had  happened  before.  I  felt 
like  a  poor  fellow  running  a  race  for 
his  life.  I  knew  I  could  pay  back 
ten  times  —  a  hundred  times  —  what 
I  took." 

"You  took  money?'*  said  Dart. 

The  thief's  head  dropped. 

"  No.  I  was  caught  when  I  was 
taking  it.  I  wasn't  sharp  enough. 
78 


A    TO-MORROW 

Someone  came  in  and  saw  me,  and 
there  was  a  crazy  row.  I  was  sent 
to  prison.  There  was  no  more  try- 
ing after  that.  It 's  nearly  two  years 
since,  and  I  Ve  been  hanging  about 
the  streets  and  falling  lower  and 
lower.  I  Ve  run  miles  panting  after 
cabs  with  luggage  in  them  and  not 
had  strength  to  carry  in  the  boxes 
when  they  stopped.  I  Ve  starved 
and  slept  out  of  doors.  But  the 
thing  I  wanted  to  work  out  is  in 
my  mind  all  the  time  —  like  some 
machine  tearing  round.  It  wants 
to  be  finished.  It  never  will  be. 
That's  all." 

Glad  was  leaning  forward  staring 
at  him,  her  roughened  hands  with 
the  smeared  cracks  on  them  clasped 
round  her  knees. 

79 


THE    DAWN  OF 

"Things  'as  to  be  finished,"  she 
said.  "  They  finish  theirselves." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  Dart 
turned  on  her. 

"  Dunno  'oiv  I  know  —  but  I  do. 
When  things  begin  they  finish.  It 's 
like  a  wheel  rollin'  down  an  'ill." 
Her  sharp  eyes  fixed  themselves  on 
Dart's.  "All  of  us '11  finish  some- 
thin'  —  'cos  we  Ve  begun.  You  will 
—  Polly  will  — 'e  will  — I  will." 
She  stopped  with  a  sudden  sheepish 
chuckle  and  dropped  her  forehead 
on  her  knees,  giggling.  "  Dunno  wot 
I  'm  talking  about,"  she  said,  "  but 
it 's  true." 

Dart  began  to  understand  that  it 
was.  And  he  also  saw  that  this 
ragged  thing  who  knew  nothing 

whatever,  looked  out  on  the  world 
so 


A    TO-MORROW 

with  the  eyes  of  a  seer,  though  she 
was  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  her 
own  knowledge.  It  was  a  weird 
thing.  He  turned  to  the  girl  Polly. 

"Tell  me  how  you  came  here," 
he  said. 

He  spoke  in  a  low  voice  and 
gently.  He  did  not  want  to  frighten 
her,  but  he  wanted  to  know  how  she 
had  begun.  When  she  lifted  her 
childish  eyes  to  his,  her  chin  began 
to  shake.  For  some  reason  she  did 
not  question  his  right  to  ask  what  he 
would.  She  answered  him  meekly, 
as  her  fingers  fumbled  with  the  stuff 
of  her  dress. 

"  I  lived  in  the  country  with  my 
mother,"  she  said.  "  We  was  very 
happy  together.  In  the  spring  there 
was  primroses  and  —  and  lambs.  I 


THE    DAWN    OF 

—  can't  abide  to  look  at  the  sheep 
in  the  park  these  days.  They  re- 
mind me  so.  There  was  a  girl  in 
the  village  got  a  place  in  town  and 
came  back  and  told  us  all  about  it. 
It  made  me  silly.  I  wanted  to 
come  here,  too.  I  —  I  came  — " 
She  put  her  arm  over  her  face  and 
began  to  sob. 

"She  can't  tell  you,"  said  Glad. 
"There  was  a  swell  in  the  'ouse 
made  love  to  her.  She  used  to  carry 
up  coals  to  'is  parlor  an'  'e  talked  to 
'er.  'E  'ad  a  wye  with  'im  —  " 

Polly  broke  into  a  smothered  wail. 

"  Oh,  I  did  love  him  so  — I  did  !  " 
she  cried.  "  I  'd  have  let  him  walk 
over  me.  I  'd  have  let  him  kill 
me." 

"'E    nearly    did    it,"   said    Glad. 
81 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  'E  went  away  sudden  an'  she 's 
never  'card  word  of  'im  since." 

From  under  Polly's  face-hiding 
arm  came  broken  words. 

"  I  could  n't  tell  my  mother.  I 
did  not  know  how.  I  was  too  fright- 
ened and  ashamed.  Now  it 's  too 
late.  I  shall  never  see  my  mother 
again,  and  it  seems  as  if  all  the  lambs 
and  primroses  in  the  world  was  dead. 
Oh,  they  're  dead  -  -  they  're  dead  — 
and  I  wish  I  was,  too  !  " 

Glad's  eyes  winked  rapidly  and  she 
gave  a  hoarse  little  cough  to  clear 
her  throat.  Her  arms  still  clasping 
her  knees,  she  hitched  herself  closer 
to  the  girl  and  gave  her  a  nudge 
with  her  elbow. 

"  Buck  up,  Polly,"  she  said,  "  we 
ain't  none  of  us  finished  yet.  Look 


THE    DAWN    OF 

at  us  now  —  sittin'  by  our  own  fire 
with  bread  and  puddin*  inside  us  — 
an'  think  wot  we  was  this  mornin'. 
Who  knows  wot  we  '11  'ave  this  time 
to-morrer." 

Then  she  stopped  and  looked  with 
a  wide  grin  at  Antony  Dart. 

"'Ow  did  I  come  'ere?"  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  how  did 
you  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  dunno,"  she  said ;  "  I  was  'ere 
first  thing  I  remember.  I  lived  with 
a  old  woman  in  another  'ouse  in  the 
court.  One  mornin'  when  I  woke 
up  she  was  dead.  Sometimes  I've 
begged  an'  sold  matches.  Sometimes 
I  've  took  care  of  women's  children 
or  'clped  'em  when  they  'ad  to  lie  up. 
I  've  seen  a  lot  —  but  I  like  to  see  a 
lot.  'Ope  I  '11  see  a  lot  more  afore 


A    TO-MORROW 

I  'm  done.  I  'm  used  to  bein*  'ungiy 
an'  cold,  an'  all  that,  but  —  but  I 
allers  like  to  see  what 's  comin'  to- 
morrer.  There's  allers  somethin' 
else  to-morrer.  That 's  all  about 
me"  and  she  chuckled  again. 

Dart  picked  up  some  fresh  sticks 
and  threw  them  on  the  fire.  There 
was  some  fine  crackling  and  a  new 
flame  leaped  up. 

"  If  you  could  do  what  you  liked," 
he  said,  "what  would  you  like  to 
do?" 

Her  chuckle  became  an  outright 
laugh. 

"  If  I  'ad  ten  pounds  ? "  she  asked, 
evidently  prepared  to  adjust  herself 
in  imagination  to  any  form  of  un- 
looked-for good  luck. 

"  If  you  had  more  ?  " 


THE    DAWN    OF 

His  tone  made  the  thief  lift  his 
head  to  look  at  him. 

"  If  I  'ad  a  wand  like  the  one  Jem 
told  me  was  in  the  pantermine  ? " 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

She  sat  and  stared  at  the  fire  a  few 
moments,  and  then  began  to  speak  in 
a  low  luxuriating  voice. 

"  I  'd  get  a  better  room,"  she  said, 
revelling.  "  There 's  one  in  the 
next  'ouse.  I  'd  'ave  a  few  sticks  o' 
furnisher  in  it  —  a  bed  an'  a  chair 
or  two.  I'd  get  some  warm  pet- 
ticuts  an'  a  shawl  an'  a  'at  —  with 
a  ostrich  feather  in  it.  Polly  an' 
me  'd  live  together.  We  'd  'ave 
fire  an'  grub  every  day.  I  'd  get 
drunken  Bet's  biby  put  in  an  Jome. 
I  'd  'elp  the  women  when  they  'ad  to 
lie  up.  I'd  — I'd  'elp  %im  a  bit," 

86 


A    TO-MORROW 

with  a  jerk  of  her  elbow  toward  the 
thief.  "  If  'e  was  kept  fed  p'r'aps  'e 
could  work  out  that  thing  in  'is  'cad- 
I  'd  go  round  the  court  an'  'elp  them 
with  'usbands  that  knocks  'em  about. 
I  'd —  I  'd  put  a  stop  to  the  knockin' 
about,"  a  queer  fixed  look  showing 
itself  in  her  eyes.  "  If  I  'ad  money 
I  could  do  it.  'Ow  much,"  with 
sudden  prudence,  "  could  a  body  'ave 
—  with  one  o'  them  wands  ? " 

"  More  than  enough  to  do  all  you 
have  spoken  of,"  answered  Dart. 

"  It 's  a  shimc  a  body  could  n't  'ave 
it.  Apple  Blossom  Court  'd  be  a 
different  thing.  It  'd  be  the  sime  as 
Miss  Montaubyn  says  it 's  goin'  to 
be."  She  laughed  again,  this  time  as 
if  remembering  something  fantastic, 
but  not  despicable. 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"  Who  is  Miss  Montaubyn  ? " 

"  She 's  a'  old  woman  as  lives  next 
floor  below.  When  she  was  young 
she  was  pretty  an*  used  to  dance  in 
the  'alls.  Drunken  Bet  says  she  was 
one  o'  the  wust.  When  she  got  old 
it  made  'er  mad  an'  she  got  wusser. 
She  was  ready  to  tear  gals  eyes  out, 
an*  when  she  'd  get  took  for  makin' 
a  row  she'd  fight  like  a  tiger  cat. 
About  a  year  ago  she  tumbled  down- 
stairs when  she'd  'ad  too  much  an' 
she  broke  both  'er  legs.  You  re- 
member, Polly  ? " 

Polly  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  when  they  took  her  away  to 
the  hospital !  "  she  shuddered.  "  Oh, 
when  they  lifted  her  up  to  carry 
her ! " 

•"  I  thought  Polly  'd  'ave  a  fit  when 

88 


A    TO-MORROW 

she  'card  'er  screamin'  an*  swearin*. 
My !  it  was  langwich !  But  it  was 
the  'orspitle  did  it." 

"  Did  what  ? " 

"  Dunno,"  with  an  uncertain,  even 
slightly  awed  laugh.  "  Dunno  wot 
it  did  —  neither  does  nobody  else, 
but  somethin'  'appened.  It  was 
along  of  a  lidy  as  come  in  one  day 
an'  talked  to  'er  when  she  was  lyin' 
there,  My  eye,"  chuckling,  "  it  was 
queer  talk !  But  I  liked  it.  P'raps 
it  was  lies,  but  it  was  cheerfle  lies 
that  'elps  ycr.  What  I  ses  is  —  if 
things  ain't  cheerfle,  people 's  got  to  be 
—  to  fight  it  out.  The  women  in 
the  'ouse  larft  fit  to  kill  theirselves 
when  she  fust  come  'ome  limpin'  an' 
talked  to  'em  about  what  the  lidy 
told  'er.  But  arter  a  bit  they  liked 
* 


THE    DAWN    OF 

to  'car  'er — just  along  o'  the  cheer- 
fleness.  Said  it  was  like  a  panter- 
mine.  Drunken  Bet  says  if  she 
could  get  'old  'f  it  an'  believe  it  sime 
as  Jinny  Montaubyn  does  it  'd  be  as 
cheerin'  as  drink  an'  last  longer." 

"  Is  it  a  kind  of  religion  ? "  Dart 
asked,  having  a  vague  memory  of 
rumors  of  fantastic  new  theories  and 
half-born  beliefs  which  had  seemed 
to  him  weird  visions  floating  through 
fagged  brains  wearied  by  old  doubts 
and  arguments  and  failures.  The 
world  was  tired  —  the  whole  earth 
was  sad  —  centuries  had  wrought 
only  to  the  end  of  this  twentieth 
century's  despair.  Was  the  struggle 
waking  even  here  —  in  this  back 
water  of  the  huge  city's  human  tide  ? 
he  wondered  with  dull  interest. 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  Is  it  a  kind  of  religion  ? "  he  said. 

"  It 's  cheerfler."  Glad  thrust  out 
her  sharp  chin  uncertainly  again. 
"There's  no  'ell  fire  in  it.  An* 
there  ain't  no  blime  laid  on  Goda- 
mighty."  (The  word  as  she  uttered 
it  seemed  to  have  no  connection 
whatever  with  her  usual  colloquial 
invocation  of  the  Deity.)  "When 
a  dray  run  over  little  Billy  an'  crushed 
'im  inter  a  rag,  an'  'is  mother  was 
screamin'  an'  draggin'  'er  'air  down, 
the  curick  'e  ses,  '  It 's  Gawd's  will,' 
'e  ses  —  an'  'e  ain't  no  bad  sort 
neither,  an'  'is  fice  was  white  an'  wet 
with  sweat  — «  Gawd  done  it,'  'e  ses. 
An'  me,  I  'd  nussed  the  child  an'  I 
clawed  me  'air  sime  as  if  I  was  'is 
mother  an'  I  screamed  out,  '  Then 
damn  'im  I J  An'  the  curick  'e 
91 


THE    DAWN    OF 

dropped  sittin'  down  on  the  curb- 
stone an*  'id  'is  fice  in  'is  /ands." 

Dart  hid  his  own  face  after  the 
manner  of  the  wretched  curate. 

"No  wonder,"  he  groaned.  His 
blood  turned  cold. 

"But,"  said  Glad,  "Miss  Mon- 
taubyn's  lidy  she  says  Godamighty 
never  done  it  nor  never  intended  it, 
an*  if  we  kep*  sayin'  an'  believin'  'e  's 
close  to  us  an*  not  millyuns  o*  miles 
away,  we'd  be  took  care  of  whilst 
we  was  alive  an*  not  'ave  to  wait  till 
we  was  dead." 

She  got  up  on  her  feet  and  threw 
up  her  arms  with  a  sudden  jerk  and 
involuntary  gesture. 

"I'm  alive!  I'm  alive!"  she 
cried  out,  "  I  've  got  ter  be  took  care 
of  now  !  That 's  why  I  like  wot  she 

pa 


'  I'm  alive!     I'm  alive!"  she  cried  out. 


A    TO-MORROW 

tells  about  it.  So  does  the  women. 
We  ain't  no  more  reason  ter  be  sure 
of  wot  the  curick  says  than  ter  be 
sure  o'  this.  Dunno  as  I  've  got  ter 
choose  either  way,  but  if  I  'ad,  I  'd 
choose  the  cheerflest." 

Dart  had  sat  staring  at  her  —  so 
had  Polly  —  so  had  the  thief.  Dart 
rubbed  his  forehead. 

"  I   do   not   understand,"  he  said. 

"  'T  ain't  understanding  !  It 's  be- 
lievin'.  Bless  yer,  she  does  n't  under- 
stand. I  say,  let 's  go  an'  talk  to  'er 
a  bit.  She  don't  mind  nothin',  an' 
she  '11  let  us  in.  We  can  leave  Polly 
an*  'im  'ere.  They  can  make  some 
more  tea  an'  drink  it." 

It  ended  in  their  going  out  of  the 
room  together  again  and  stumbling 
once  more  down  the  stairway's 

93 


THE    DAWN    OF 

crookedness.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
first  short  flight  they  stopped  in  the 
darkness  and  Glad  knocked  at  a  door 
with  a  summons  manifestly  expectant 
of  cheerful  welcome.  She  used  the 
formula  she  had  used  before. 

"  'S  on'y  me,  Miss  Montaubyn," 
she  cried  out.  "  'S  on'y  Glad." 

The  door  opened  in  wide  wel- 
come, and  confronting  them  as  she 
held  its  handle  stood  a  small  old 
woman  with  an  astonishing  face.  It 
was  astonishing  because  while  it  was 
withered  and  wrinkled  with  marks  of 
past  years  which  had  once  stamped 
their  reckless  unsavoriness  upon  its 
every  line,  some  strange  redeeming 
thing  had  happened  to  it  and  its 
expression  was  that  of  a  creature  to 

whom  the  opening  of  a  door  could 
94. 


A    TO-MORROW 

only  mean  the  entrance  —  the  tum- 
bling in  as  it  were  —  of  hopes  real- 
ized. Its  surface  was  swept  clean  of 
even  the  vaguest  anticipation  of  any- 
thing not  to  be  desired.  Smiling  as 
it  did  through  the  black  doorway 
into  the  unrelieved  shadow  of  the 
passage,  it  struck  Antony  Dart  at 
once  that  it  actually  implied  this  — 
and  that  in  this  place  —  and  indeed 
in  any  place  —  nothing  could  have 
been  more  astonishing.  What 
could,  indeed  ? 

"  Well,  well,"  she  said,  "  come  in, 
Glad,  bless  yer." 

"  I  've  brought  a  gent  to  'ear 
yer  talk  a  bit,"  Glad  explained 
informally. 

The  small  old  woman  raised  her 
twinkling  old  face  to  look  at  him. 

95 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"  Ah  ! "  she  said,  as  if  summing  up 
what  was  before  her.  "  'E  thinks 
it 's  worse  than  it  is,  does  n't  'e,  now  ? 
Come  in,  sir,  do." 

This  time  it  struck  Dart  that  her 
look  seemed  actually  to  anticipate  the 
evolving  of  some  wonderful  and  desir- 
able thing  from  himself.  As  if  even 
his  gloom  carried  with  it  treasure  as 
yet  undisplayed.  As  she  knew  nothing 
of  the  ten  sovereigns,  he  wondered 
what,  in  God's  name,  she  saw. 

The  poverty  of  the  little  square 
room  had  an  odd  cheer  in  it.  Much 
scrubbing  had  removed  from  it  the 
objections  manifest  in  Glad's  room 
above.  There  was  a  small  red  fire 
in  the  grate,  a  strip  of  old,  but  gay 
carpet  before  it,  two  chairs  and  a 
table  were  covered  with  a  harlequin 


A    TO-MORROW 

patchwork  made  of  bright  odds  and 
ends  of  all  sizes  and  shapes.  The 
fog  in  all  its  murky  volume  could 
not  quite  obscure  the  brightness  of 
the  often  rubbed  window  and  its 
harlequin  curtain  drawn  across  upon 
a  string. 

"  Bless  yer,"  said  Miss  Montaubyn, 
"  sit  down." 

Dart  sat  and  thanked  her.  Glad 
dropped  upon  the  floor  and  girdled 
her  knees  comfortably  while  Miss 
Montaubyn  took  the  second  chair, 
which  was  close  to  the  table,  and 
snuffed  the  candle  which  stood  near 
a  basket  of  colored  scraps  such  as, 
without  doubt,  had  made  the  harle- 
quin curtain. 

"Yer  won't  mind  me  goin*  on 
with  me  bit  o'  work  ? "  she  chirped. 

97 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"Tell  'im  wot  it  is,"  Glad  sug- 
gested. 

"They  come  from  a  dressmaker  as  is 
in  a  small  way,"  designating  the  scraps 
by  a  gesture.  "  I  clean  up  for  'er  an' 
she  lets  me  'ave  'em.  I  make  'em  up 
into  anythink  I  can — pin-cushions  an* 
bags  an'  curtings  an'  balls.  Nobody  'd 
think  wot  they  run  to  sometimes. 
Now  an'  then  I  sell  some  of  'em. 
Wot  I  can't  sell  I  give  away." 

"  Drunken  Bet's  biby  plays  with 
'er  ball  all  day,"  said  Glad. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Miss  Montaubyn, 
drawing  out  a  long  needleful  of 
thread,  "  Bet,  she  thinks  it  worse 
than  it  is." 

"Could  it  be  worse?"  asked  Dart. 
"  Could  anything  be  worse  than 
everything  is  ? " 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  Lots,"  suggested  Glad  ;  "  might 
'ave  broke  your  back,  might  'ave  a 
fever,  might  be  in  jail  for  knifin' 
someone.  *E  wants  to  'ear  you 
talk,  Miss  Montaubyn ;  tell  'im  all 
about  yerself." 

"  Me  !  "  her  expectant  eyes  on  him. 
"  'E  would  n't  want  to  'ear  it.  I 
should  n't  want  to  'ear  it  myself. 
Bein'  on  the  'alls  when  yer  a  pretty 
girl  ain't  an  'elpful  life ;  an'  bein' 
took  up  an*  dropped  down  till  yer 
dropped  in  the  gutter  an'  don't  know 
'ow  to  get  out  —  it 's  wot  yer  must  n't 
let  yer  mind  go  back  to." 

"That's  wot  the  lidy  said,"  called 
out  Glad.  "Tell  'im  about  the  lidy. 
She  does  n't  even  know  who  she  was." 
The  remark  was  tossed  to  Dart. 

"  Never  even  'card  'er  name,"  with 

99 


THE    DAWN    OF 

unabated  cheer  said  Miss  Montaubyn. 
"  She  come  an*  she  went  an*  me  too 
low  to  do  anything  but  lie  an*  look 
at  'cr  and  listen.  An'  '  Which  of  us 
two  is  mad?'  I  scs  to  myself.  But  I 
lay  thinkin'  and  thinkin*  —  an'  it  was 
so  cheerfle  I  could  n't  get  it  out  of 
me  'ead  —  nor  never  'ave  since." 

"  What  did  she  say  ? " 

"  I  could  n't  remember  the  words 
—  it  was  the  way  they  took  away 
things  a  body's  afraid  of.  It  was 
about  things  never  'avin'  really  been 
like  wot  we  thought  they  was.  God- 
amighty  now,  there  ain't  a  bit  of 
'arm  in  'im." 

"  What  ? "  he  said  with  a  start. 

"  'E  never  done  the  accidents  and 
the  trouble.  It  was  us  as  went  out 
of  the  light  into  the  dark.  If  we  'd 


A    TO-MORROW 

kep'  in  the  light  all  the  time,  an* 
thought  about  it,  an'  talked  about  it, 
we'd  never  'ad  nothin'  else.  'T ain't 
punishment  neither.  'T  ain't  nothin' 
but  the  dark  —  an'  the  dark  ain't 
nothin'  but  the  light  bcin'  away. 
'  Keep  in  the  light,'  she  ses,  '  never 
think  of  nothin'  else,  an*  then  you'll 
begin  an*  see  things.  Everybody  's 
been  afraid.  There  ain't  no  need. 
You  believe  that.'  " 

"  Believe  ? "  said  Dart  heavily. 

She  nodded. 

" '  Yes/  ses  I  to  'er,  « that 's  where 
the  trouble  comes  in  —  bclicvinV 
And  she  answers  as  cool  as  could 
be:  'Yes,  it  is,'  she  ses,  'we've  all 
been  thinkin'  we've  been  believin', 
an'  none  of  us  'as.  If  we  'ad  what  'd 
there  be  to  be  afraid  of?  If  we 


THE    DAWN    OF 

believed  a  king  was  givin*  us  our 
livin'  an'  takin'  care  of  us  who  'd 
be  afraid  of  not  'avin*  enough  to 
cat?'" 

"  Who  ? "  groaned  Dart.  He  sat 
hanging  his  head  and  staring  at  the 
floor.  This  was  another  phase  of 
the  dream. 

"'Where  is  'E?'  I  ses.  « 'Im  as 
breaks  old  women's  legs  an*  crushes 
babies  under  wheels  —  so  as  they  '11 
be  resigned  ? '  An'  all  of  a  sudden 
she  calls  out  quite  loud  :  '  Nowhere,' 
she  ses.  '  An'  never  was.  But  'Im 
as  stretched  forth  the  'eavens  an'  laid 
the  foundations  of  the  earth,  'Im  as 
is  the  Life  an*  Love  of  the  world, 
'E  's  'ere  !  Stretch  out  yer  'and,'  she 
ses,  '  an'  call  out,  "  Speak,  Lord,  thy 
servant  'eareth,"  an'  ye  '11  'ear  an'  see. 


"Speak,  Lord,  thy  servant  'eareth. 


A    TO-MORROW 

An*  never  you  stop  sayin'  it  —  let  yer 
'eart  beat  it  an'  yer  breath  breathe  it 
—  an*  yer  '11  find  yer  goin'  about 
laughin'  soft  to  yerself  an'  lovin'  every- 
thin'  as  if  it  was  yer  own  child  at 
breast.  An'  no  'arm  can  come  to 
yer.  Try  it  when  yer  go  'ome.'  " 

"  Did  you  ?"  asked  Dart. 

Glad  answered  for  her  with  a 
tremulous  —  yes  it  was  a  tremulous  — 
giggle,  a  weirdly  moved  little  sound. 

"  When  she  wakes  in  the  morn- 
in'  she  ses  to  'erself,  « Good  things 
is  goin'  to  come  to-day  —  cheerfle 
things.'  When  there's  a  knock  at 
the  door  she  ses, '  Somethin'  friendly  's 
comin'  in.'  An'  when  Drunken  Bet 's 
makin'  a  row  an'  ragin'  an'  tearin' 
an'  threatenin'  to  *ave  'er  eyes  out  of 
>r  fice,  she  ses,  '  Lor,  Bet,  yer  don't 
103 


THE    DAWN    OF 

mean  a  word  of  it  —  yer  a  friend  to 
every  woman  in  the  'ouse.'  When 
she  don't  know  which  way  to  turn, 
she  stands  still  an*  ses,  '  Speak,  Lord, 
thy  servant  'careth,'  an*  then  she  does 
wotever  next  comes  into  'er  mind  — 
an'  she  says  it 's  allus  the  right  answer. 
Sometimes,"  sheepishly,  "  I  Ve  tried 
it  myself — p'raps  it 's  true.  I  did  it 
this  mornin'  when  I  sat  down  an' 
pulled  me  sack  over  me  'ead  on  the 
bridge.  Polly  'd  been  cryin'  so  loud 
all  night  I  'd  got  a  bit  low  in  me 
stummick  an*  — "  She  stopped  sud- 
denly and  turned  on  Dart  as  if  light 
had  flashed  across  her  mind.  "  Dunno 
nothin*  about  it,"  she  stammered, 
"  but  I  said  it  — just  like  she  does  — 
an*  you  come  !  " 

Plainly  she  had  uttered  whatever 
104 


A    TO-MORROW 

words  she  had  used  in  the  form  of  a 
sort  of  incantation,  and  here  was  the 
result  in  the  living  body  of  this  man 
sitting  before  her.  She  stared  hard 
at  him,  repeating  her  words  :  "  Ton 
come.  Yes,  you  did." 

"  It  was  the  answer,"  said  Miss 
Montaubyn,  with  entire  simplicity  as 
she  bit  off  her  thread,  "  that 's  wot  it 
was." 

Antony  Dart  lifted  his  heavy 
head. 

"  You  believe  it,"  he  said. 

"  I  'm  livin*  on  believin'  it,"  she 
said  confidingly.  "  I  ain't  got 
nothin'  else.  An'  answers  keeps 
comin'  and  cominY' 

"  What  answers  ?  " 

"  Bits    o'     work  —  an*   things   as 
'elps.     Glad  there,  she's  one." 
105 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"  Aw,"  said  Glad,  "  I  ain't  nothin'. 
I  likes  to  'ear  yer  tell  ibout  it.  She 
ses,"  to  Dart  again,  a  little  slowly,  as 
she  watched  his  face  with  curiously 
questioning  eyes — "she  ses  'E's  in 
the  room  —  same  as  'E  's  everywhere 

—  in  this  'ere  room.     Sometimes  she 
talks  out  loud  to  'Im." 

"What!"  cried  Dart,  startled 
again. 

The  strange  Majestic  Awful  Idea 

—  the   Deity  of  the    Ages  —  to  be 
spoken  of  as  a  mere  unfeared  Reality  ! 
And    even    as    the    vaguely    formed 
thought  sprang  in  his  brain  he  started 
once   more,   suddenly  confronted  by 
the  meaning  his  sense  of  shock  im- 
plied.    What  had  all  the  sermons  of 
all  the  centuries  been  preaching  but 
that  it  was  Reality?     What  had  all 


•  06 


A    TO-MORROW 

the  infidels  of  every  age  contended 
but  that  it  was  Unreal,  and  the  folly 
of  a  dream  ?  He  had  never  thought 
of  himself  as  an  infidel ;  perhaps  it 
would  have  shocked  him  to  be  called 
one,  though  he  was  not  quite  sure. 
But  that  a  little  superannuated  dancer 
at  music-halls,  battered  and  worn  by 
an  unlawful  life,  should  sit  and  smile 
in  absolute  faith  at  such  a  —  a  super- 
stition as  this,  stirred  something  like 
awe  in  him. 

For  she  was  smiling  in  entire 
acquiescence. 

"  It 's  what  the  curick  ses,"  she  en- 
larged radiantly.  "  Though  'e  don't 
believe  it,  pore  young  man ;  'e  on'y 
thinks  'e  does.  *  It 's  for  'igh  an* 
low/  *e  ses,  '  for  you  an*  me  as  well 

as    for    them    as    is    royal    fambleys. 
107 


THE    DAWN    OF 

The  Almighty  'E  s  everywhere!9 
<  Yes,'  ses  I,  « I  've  felt  'Im  'ere  —  as 
near  as  y'  are  yereelf,  sir,  I  'ave  —  an* 
I  Ve  spoke  to  'Im.1 " 

"  What  did  the  curate  say  ? "  Dart 
asked,  amazed. 

"  Seemed  like  it  frightened  'im  a 
bit.  '  We  must  n't  be  too  bold,  Miss 
Montaubyn,  my  dear,'  'e  ses,  for  'e  's 
a  kind  young  man  as  ever  lived,  an* 
often  ses  '  my  dear J  to  them  'e 's  com- 
fortin'.  But  yer  see  the  lidy  'ad  gave 
me  a  Bible  o'  me  own  an'  I  'd  set  'ere 
an*  read  it,  an'  read  it  an'  learned 
verses  to  say  to  meself  when  I  was  in 
bed  —  an*  I  'd  got  ter  feel  like  it  was 
someone  talkin'  to  me  an*  makin'  me 
understand.  So  I  ses,  '  'T  ain't  bold- 
ness we're  warned  against;  it's  not 
lovin*  an*  trustin*  enough,  an*  not 

log 


A    TO-MORROW 

askin'  an'  believin'  true.  Don't  yer 
remember  wot  it  ses :  "  I,  even  I,  am 
'e  that  comforteth  yer.  Who  art 
thou  that  thou  art  afraid  of  man 
that  shall  die  an'  the  son  of  man  that 
shall  be  made  as  grass,  an'  forgetteth 
Jehovah  thy  Creator,  that  stretched 
forth  the  'eavens  an'  laid  the  founda- 
tions of  the  earth  ?  "  an'  "  I  've  cov- 
ered thee  with  the  shadder  of  me 
'and,"  it  ses ;  an'  "  I  will  go  before 
thee  an'  make  the  rough  places 
smooth  ;  "  an'  "  'Itherto  ye  'ave  asked 
nothin'  in  my  name;  ask  therefore 
that  ye  may  receive,  an'  yer  joy  may 
be  made  full."  '  An'  'e  looked  down 
on  the  floor  as  if  'e  was  doin*  some 
'ard  thinkin',  pore  young  man,  an'  'e 
ses,  quite  sudden  an'  shaky,  '  Lord,  I 
believe,  'elp  thou  my  unbelief,'  an*  'e 

109 


THE    DAWN    OF 

ses  it  as  if  'e  was  in  trouble  an*  did  n't 
know  'e  'd  spoke  out  loud." 

"  Where  —  how  did  you  come  upon 
your  verses?"  said  Dart.  "  How  did 
you  find  them?" 

"Ah,"  triumphantly,  "they  was 
all  answers  —  they  was  the  first  an- 
swers I  ever  'ad.  When  I  first  come 
'ome  an'  it  seemed  as  if  I  was  goin' 
to  be  swep'  away  in  the  dirt  o'  the 
street  —  one  day  when  I  was  near 
drove  wild  with  cold  an*  'unger,  I 
set  down  on  the  floor  an'  I  dragged 
the  Bible  to  me  an'  I  ses:  'There 
ain't  nothin'  on  earth  or  in  'ell  as  '11 
'elp  me.  I  'm  goin'  to  do  wot  the 
lidy  said  —  mad  or  not.'  An'  I  'eld 
the  book  —  an'  I  'eld  my  breath,  too, 
'cos  it  was  like  waitin'  for  the  end  o' 
the  world  —  an'  after  a  bit  I  'ears 


A    TO-MORROW 

myself  call  out  in  a  'oiler  whisper, 
'Speak,  Lord,  thy  servant  'eareth. 
Show  me  a  'ope.'  An'  I  was  trem- 
blin'  all  over  when  I  opened  the 
book.  An*  there  it  was !  '  I  will 
go  before  thee  an'  make  the  rough 
places  smooth,  I  will  break  in  pieces 
the  doors  of  brass  and  will  cut  in 
sunder  the  bars  of  iron.'  An*  I 
knowed  it  was  a  answer." 

"You  —  knew  —  it  —  was  an 
answer  ? " 

"Wot  else  was  it?"  with  a  shin- 
ing face.  "  I  'd  arst  for  it,  an'  there 
it  was.  An'  in  about  a  hour  Glad 
come  runnin'  up  'ere,  an'  she  'd  *ad 
a  bit  o'  luck—" 

"'T  was  n't  nothin'  much,"  Glad 
broke  in  deprecatingly,  "  on'y  I  'd  got 
somethin'  to  eat  an'  a  bit  o'  fire." 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"An*  she  made  me  go  an*  'ave  a 
'earty  meal,  an'  set  an*  warm  meself. 
An*  she  was  that  cheerfle  an'  full  o* 
pluck,  she  'elped  me  to  forget  about 
the  things  that  was  makin*  me  into  a 
madwoman.  She  was  the  answer  — 
same  as  the  book  'ad  promised.  They 
comes  in  different  wyes  the  answers 
does.  Bless  yer,  they  don't  come  in 
claps  of  thunder  an'  streaks  o'  light- 
enin*  —  they  just  comes  easy  an'  nat- 
ural—  so  's  sometimes  yer  don't  think 
for  a  minit  or  two  that  they  're  an- 
swers at  all.  But  it  comes  to  yer  in 
a  bit  an'  yer  'eart  stands  still  for  joy. 
An'  ever  since  then  I  just  go  to  me 
book  an*  arst.  P'raps,"  her  smile  an 
illuminating  thing,  "  me  bein*  the 
low  an'  pore  in  spirit  at  the  begin- 
ning an'  settin'  'ere  all  alone  by  me- 


A    TO-MORROW 

self  day  in  an'  day  out,  just  thinkin' 
it  all  over  —  an'  arstin*  —  an*  waitin* 
—  p'raps  light  was  gave  me  'cos  I 
was  in  such  a  little  place  an'  in  the 
dark.  But  I  ain't  pore  in  spirit  now. 
Lor',  no,  yer  can't  be  when  yer've 
on'y  got  to  believe.  'An'  'itherto 
ye  'ave  arst  nothin*  in  my  name ; 
arst  therefore  that  ye  may  receive 
an*  yer  joy  be  made  full.'  ' 

"  Am  I  sitting  here  listening  to  an 
old  female  reprobate's  disquisition  on 
religion  ? "  passed  through  Antony 
Dart's  mind.  "Why  am  I  listen- 
ing ?  I  am  doing  it  because  here  is 
a  creature  who  believes  —  knowing 
no  doctrine,  knowing  no  church. 
She  believes  —  she  thinks  she  knows 
her  Deity  is  by  her  side.  She  is  not 
afraid.  To  her  simpleness  the  awful 

"3 


THE    DAWN    OF 

Unknown  is  the  Known  —  and  with 
her." 

"  Suppose  it  were  true,"  he  uttered 
aloud,  in  response  to  a  sense  of  in- 
ward tremor,  "  suppose  —  it  —  were 
—  true  ?  "  And  he  was  not  speaking 
either  to  the  woman  or  the  girl,  and 
his  forehead  was  damp. 

"Gawd!"  said  Glad,  her  chin 
almost  on  her  knees,  her  eyes  staring 
fearsomely.  "  S'pose  it  was  —  an*  us 
sittin'  'ere  an*  not  knowin'  it  —  an' 
no  one  knowin'  it  —  nor  gettin'  the 
good  of  it.  Sime  as  if —  "  ponder- 
ing hard  in  search  of  simile,  "si me 
as  if  no  one  'ad  never  knowed  about 
'lectricity,  an'  there  wasn't  no  'lectric 
lights  nor  no  'lectric  nothin'.  Onct 
nobody  knowed,  an'  all  the  sime  it 
was  there — jest  waitin'." 


A    TO-MORROW 

Her  fantastic  laugh  ended  for  her 
with  a  little  choking,  vaguely  hys- 
teric sound. 

"  Blimme,"  she  said.  "  Ain't  it 
queer,  us  not  knowin' — if  it's  true'* 

Antony  Dart  bent  forward  in  his 
chair.  He  looked  far  into  the  eyes 
of  the  ex-dancer  as  if  some  unseen 
thing  within  them  might  answer 
him.  Miss  Montaubyn  herself  for 
the  moment  he  did  not  see. 

"  What,"  he  stammered  hoarsely, 
his  voice  broken  with  awe,  "  what 
of  the  hideous  wrongs  —  the  woes 
and  horrors  —  and  hideous  wrongs?" 

"  There  would  n't  be  none  if  ive 
was  right  —  if  we  never  thought  noth- 
in'  but  '  Good  's  comin'  —  good  's 
'ere.'  If  we  everyone  of  us  thought 
it  —  every  minit  of  every  day." 

"5 


THE    DAWN    OF 

She  did  not  know  she  was  speak- 
ing of  a  millennium  —  the  end  of 
the  world.  She  sat  by  her  one  can- 
dle, threading  her  needle  and  believ- 
ing she  was  speaking  of  To-day. 

He  laughed  a  hollow  laugh. 

"  If  we  were  right !  "  he  said.  "  It 
would  take  long  —  long  —  long  —  to 
make  us  all  so." 

"  It  would  be  slow  p'raps.  Well, 
so  it  would  —  but  good  comes  quick 
for  them  as  begins  callin'  it.  It's 
been  quick  for  me"  drawing  her 
thread  through  the  needle's  eye  tri- 
umphantly. "  Lor*,  yes,  me  legs  is 
better  —  me  luck 's  better  —  people 's 
better.  Bless  yer,  yes  !  " 

"  It 's  true,"  said  Glad ;  "  she  gets 
on  somehow.  Things  comes.  She 
never  wants  no  drink.  Me  now," 


A    TO-MORROW 

she  applied  to  Miss  Montaubyn,  "if 
I  took  it  up  same  as  you  — wot  'd 
come  to  a  gal  like  me  ? " 

"Wot  ud  yer  want  ter  come?" 
Dart  saw  that  in  her  mind  was  an 
absolute  lack  of  any  premonition  of 
obstacle.  "  Wot  'd  yer  arst  fer  in  yer 
own  mind?" 

Glad  reflected  profoundly. 

"  Polly,"  she  said,  "  she  wants  to  go 
'ome  to  'er  mother  an*  to  the  coun- 
try. I  ain't  got  no  mother  an'  wot  I 
'ear  of  the  country  seems  like  I  'd  get 
tired  of  it.  Nothin'  but  quiet  an' 
lambs  an*  birds  an'  things  growin.' 
Me,  I  likes  things  goin'  on.  I  likes 
people  an'  'and  organs  an*  'buses.  I  'd 
stay  'ere  —  same  as  I  told  you"  with 
a  jerk  of  her  hand  toward  Dart. 

"  An'  do    things    in   the  court  —  if 
117 


THE    DAWN    OF 

I  'ad  a  bit  o'  money.  I  don't  want 
to  live  no  gay  life  when  I  'm  a  woman. 
It 's  too  'ard.  Us  pore  uns  ends  too 
bad.  Wisht  I  knowed  I  could  get 
on  some'ow." 

"  Good  '11  come,"  said  Miss  Mon- 
taubyn.  "  Just  you  say  the  same  as 
me  every  mornin*  — '  Good  's  fillin' 
the  world,  an'  some  of  it 's  comin'  to 
me.  It 's  bein'  sent  —  an'  I  'm  goin' 
to  meet  it.  It 's  comin'  —  it 's  corn- 
in'.'  "  She  bent  forward  and  touched 
the  girl's  shoulder  with  her  astonish- 
ing eyes  alight.  "  Bless  yer,  wot 's 
in  my  room  's  in  yours ;  Lor',  yes." 

Glad's  eyes  stared  into  hers,  they 
became  mysteriously,  almost  awe- 
somely, astonishing  also. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  she  breathed  in  a  hushed 

voice. 

It! 


A    TO-MORROW 

"Yes,  Lor',  yes!  When  yer  get 
up  in  the  mornin'  you  just  stand  still 
an*  arst  it.  '  Speak,  Lord/  ses  you  ; 
'  speak,  Lord  — '  " 

"Thy  servant  'eareth,"  ended 
Glad's  hushed  speech.  "  Blimme, 
but  I  'm  goin'  to  try  it !  " 

Perhaps  the  brain  of  her  saw  it 
still  as  an  incantation,  perhaps  the 
soul  of  her,  called  up  strangely  out 
of  the  dark  and  still  new-born  and 
blind  and  vague,  saw  it  vaguely  and 
half  blindly  as  something  else. 

Dart  was  wondering  which  of 
these  things  were  true. 

"  We  've  never  been  expectin' 
nothin'  that  's  good,"  said  Miss  Mon- 
taubyn.  "  We  're  allus  expectin' 
the  other.  Who  is  n't  ?  I  was  allus 

expectin'    rheumatiz   an*    'unger   an* 
119 


THE    DAWN    OF 

cold  an*  starvin'  old  age.  Wot  was 
you  lookin'  for  ? "  to  Dart. 

He  looked  down  on  the  floor  and 
answered  heavily. 

"  Failing  brain  —  failing  life  — 
despair  —  death  !  " 

"  None  of  'em  's  comin*  —  if  yer 
don't  call  'em.  Stand  still  an'  listen 
for  the  other.  It 's  the  other  that 's 
true." 

She  was  without  doubt  amazing. 
She  chirped  like  a  bird  singing  on  a 
bough,  rejoicing  in  token  of  the 
shining  of  the  sun. 

"  It 's  wot  yer  can  work  on  — 
this,"  said  Glad.  "The  curick  — 
'e's  a  good  sort  an'  no'  'arm  in  'im 
— but  'eses:  'Trouble  an'  'unger  is 
ter  teach  yer  ter  submit.  Accidents 
an*  coughs  as  tears  yer  lungs  is  sent 


A    TO-MORROW 

you  to  prepare  yer  for  'eaven.  If  yer 
loves  'Im  as  sends  'em,  yer '11  go 
there.'  '  'Ave  yer  ever  bin  ? '  ses  I. 
'  'Ave  yer  ever  saw  anyone  that 's 
bin  ?  'Ave  yer  ever  saw  anyone 
that 's  saw  anyone  that 's  bin  ? ' 
«  No,'  'e  ses.  '  Don't,  me  girl,  don't ! ' 
'  Garn,'  I  ses ;  '  tell  me  somethin' 
as  '11  do  me  some  good  afore  I  'm 
dead!  'Eaven 's  too  far  off.'" 

"  The  kingdom  of  'eaven  is  at 
'and,"  said  Miss  Montaubyn.  "  Bless 
yer,  yes,  just  'ere." 

Antony  Dart  glanced  round  the 
room.  It  was  a  strange  place.  But 
something  was  here.  Magic,  was 
it  ?  Frenzy  —  dreams  —  what  ? 

He  heard  from  below  a  sud- 
den murmur  and  crying  out  in  the 

street.     Miss    Montaubyn    heard    it 
in 


THE    DAWN    OF 

and  stopped  in  her  sewing,  holding 
her  needle  and  thread  extended. 

Glad  heard  it  and  sprang  to  her 
feet. 

"  Somethin  's  'appened,"  she  cried 
out.  "  Someone  's  *urt." 

She  was  out  of  the  room  in  a 
breath's  space.  She  stood  outside 
listening  a  few  seconds  and  darted 
back  to  the  open  door,  speaking 
through  it.  They  could  hear  below 
commotion,  exclamations,  the  wail 
of  a  child. 

tf<  Somethin 's  'appened  to  Bet !  " 
she  cried  out  again.  "  I  can  'ear  the 
child." 

She  was  gone  and  flying  down  the 
staircase;  Antony  Dart  and  Miss 
Montaubyn  rose  together.  The  tu- 
mult was  increasing;  people  were 


A    TO-MORROW 

running  about  in  the  court,  and  it 
was  plain  a  crowd  was  forming  by 
the  magic  which  calls  up  crowds  as 
from  nowhere  about  the  door.  The 
child's  screams  rose  shrill  above  the 
noise.  It  was  no  small  thing  which 
had  occurred. 

"  I  must  go,"  said  Miss  Mon- 
taubyn,  limping  away  from  her 
table.  "P'raps  I  can  'elp.  P'raps 
you  can  'elp,  too,"  as  he  followed 
her. 

They  were  met  by  Glad  at  the 
threshold.  She  had  shot  back  to 
them,  panting. 

"She  was  blind  drunk,"  she  said, 
"  an'  she  went  out  to  get  more.  She 
tried  to  cross  the  street  an'  fell  under 
a  car  She  '11  be  dead  in  five  minits. 
I  'm  goin'  for  the  biby." 


THE    DAWN    OF 

Dart  saw  Miss  Montaubyn  step 
back  into  her  room.  He  turned 
involuntarily  to  look  at  her. 

She  stood  still  a  second  —  so  still 
that  it  seemed  as  if  she  was  not  draw- 
ing mortal  breath.  Her  astonish- 
ing, expectant  eyes  closed  themselves, 
and  yet  in  closing  spoke  expectancy 
still. 

"  Speak,  Lord,"  she  said  softly,  but 
as  if  she  spoke  to  Something  whose 
nearness  to  her  was  such  that  her 
hand  might  have  touched  it.  "  Speak, 
Lord,  thy  servant  'eareth." 

Antony  Dart  almost  felt  his  hair 
rise.  He  quaked  as  she  came  near, 
her  poor  clothes  brushing  against 
him.  He  drew  back  to  let  her  pass 
first,  and  followed  her  leading. 

The  court  was   filled  with  men, 
1*4 


A    TO-MORROW 

women,  and  children,  who  surged 
about  the  doorway,  talking,  crying, 
and  protesting  against  each  other's 
crowding.  Dart  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  policeman  fighting  his  way 
through  with  a  doctor.  A  dishev- 
elled woman  with  a  child  at  her 
dirty,  bare  breast  had  got  in  and  was 
talking  loudly. 

"Just  outside  the  court  it  was,*' 
she  proclaimed,  "an*  I  saw  it.  If 
she'd  bin  'erself  it  couldn't  'ave 
'appened.  'No  time  for  'osspitles/ 
ses  I.  She 's  not  twenty  breaths  to 
dror ;  let  'er  die  in  'er  own  bed,  pore 
thing  !  "  And  both  she  and  her  baby 
breaking  into  wails  at  one  and  the 
same  time,  other  women,  some  hys- 
teric, some  maudlin  with  gin,  joined 
them  in  a  terrified  outburst. 

1*5 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"  Get  out,  you  women,"  com- 
manded the  doctor,  who  had  forced 
his  way  across  the  threshold.  "  Send 
them  away,  officer,"  to  the  policeman. 

There  were  others  to  turn  out  of 
the  room  itself,  which  was  crowded 
with  morbid  or  terrified  creatures, 
all  making  for  confusion.  Glad  had 
seized  the  child  and  was  forcing  her 
way  out  into  such  air  as  there  was 
outside. 

The  bed  —  a  strange  and  loathly 
thing  —  stood  by  the  empty,  rusty 
fireplace.  Drunken  Bet  lay  on  it,  a 
bundle  of  clothing  over  which  the 
doctor  bent  for  but  a  few  minutes 
before  he  turned  away. 

Antony  Dart,  standing  near  the 
door,  heard  Miss  Montaubyn  speak 
to  him  in  a  whisper. 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  May  I  go  to  'er  ? "  and  the  doc- 
tor nodded. 

She  limped  lightly  forward  and 
her  small  face  was  white,  but  expect- 
ant still.  What  could  she  expect 
now  —  O  Lord,  what  ? 

An  extraordinary  thing  happened. 
An  abnormal  silence  fell.  The  own- 
ers of  such  faces  as  on  stretched 
necks  caught  sight  of  her  seemed  in 
a  flash  to  communicate  with  others 
in  the  crowd. 

"  Jinny  Montaubyn  !  "  someone 
whispered.  And  "  Jinny  Montau- 
byn "  was  passed  along,  leaving  an 
awed  stirring  in  its  wake.  Those 
whom  the  pressure  outside  had 
crushed  against  the  wall  near  the 
window  in  a  passionate  hurry,  breathed 
on  and  rubbed  the  panes  that  they 


THE    DAWN    OF 

might  lay  their  faces  to  them.  One 
tore  out  the  rags  stuffed  in  a  broken 
place  and  listened  breathlessly. 

Jinny  Montaubyn  was  kneeling 
down  and  laying  her  small  old  hand 
on  the  muddied  forehead.  She  held 
it  there  a  second  or  so  and  spoke  in 
a  voice  whose  low  clearness  brought 
back  at  once  to  Dart  the  voice  in 
which  she  had  spoken  to  the  Some- 
thing upstairs. 

"  Bet/'  she  said,  "  Bet."  And  then 
mc~e  soft  still  and  yet  more  clear, 
"  Bet,  my  dear." 

It  seemed  incredible,  but  it  was  a 
fact.  Slowly  the  lids  of  the  woman's 
eyes  lifted  and  the  pupils  fixed  them- 
selves on  Jinny  Montaubyn,  who 
leaned  still  closer  and  spoke  again. 

«'T ain't  true,"  she  said.     "Not 


'  There — is — no — death. 


A    TO-MORROW 

this.  JT  ain't  true.  There  is  no 
death"  slow  and  soft,  but  passionately 
distinct.  "  There  —  is —  no  —  death." 

The  muscles  of  the  woman's  face 
twisted  it  into  a  rueful  smile.  The 
three  words  she  dragged  out  were  so 
faint  that  perhaps  none  but  Dart's 
strained  ears  heard  them. 

«  Wot  —  price  —  me  ?  " 

The  soul  of  her  was  loosening  fast 
and  straining  away,  but  Jinny  Mon- 
taubyn  followed  it. 

«  There  —  is  —  no  —  death"  and 
her  low  voice  had  the  tone  of  a  slen- 
der silver  trumpet.  "  In  a  minit  yer  '11 
know  —  in  a  minit.  Lord,"  lifting 
her  expectant  face,  "show  her  the 
wye." 

Mysteriously  the  clouds  were  clear- 
ing from  the  sodden  face—  -mysteri- 

1*9 


THE    DAWN    OF 

ously.  Miss  Montaubyn  watched 
them  as  they  were  swept  away  !  A 
minute  —  two  minutes  —  and  they 
were  gone.  Then  she  rose  noise- 
lessly and  stood  looking  down,  speak- 
ing quite  simply  as  if  to  herself. 

"Ah,"  she  breathed,  "she  does 
know  now  —  fer  sure  an'  certain." 

Then  Antony  Dart,  turning  slightly, 
realized  that  a  man  who  had  entered 
the  house  and  been  standing  near  him, 
breathing  with  light  quickness,  since 
the  moment  Miss  Montaubyn  had 
knelt,  was  plainly  the  person  Glad 
had  called  the  "  curick,"  and  that 
he  had  bowed  his  head  and  covered 
his  eyes  with  a  hand  which  trembled. 


130 


A    TO-MORROW 


IV 

HE  was  a  young  man  with  an 
eager  soul,  and  his  work  in 
Apple  Blossom  Court  and  places  like 
it  had  torn  him  many  ways.  Religious 
conventions  established  through  cen- 
turies of  custom  had  not  prepared 
him  for  life  among  the  submerged. 
He  had  struggled  and  been  appalled, 
he  had  wrestled  in  prayer  and  felt 
himself  unanswered,  and  in  repent- 
ance of  the  feeling  had  scourged  him- 
self with  thorns.  Miss  Montaubyn, 
returning  from  the  hospital,  had  filled 
him  at  first  with  horror  and  protest. 

"  But  who  knows — who  knows  ?  " 
he  said  to  Dart,  as  they  stood  and 
talked  together  afterward,  "  Faith  as 


THE    DAWN    OF 

a  little  child.  That  is  literally  hers. 
And  I  was  shocked  by  it  —  and  tried 
to  destroy  it,  until  I  suddenly  saw 
what  I  was  doing.  I  was  —  in  my 
cloddish  egotism  —  trying  to  show 
her  that  she  was  irreverent  because 
she  could  believe  what  in  my  soul  I 
do  not,  though  I  dare  not  admit  so 
much  even  to  myself.  She  took  from 
some  strange  passing  visitor  to  her 
tortured  bedside  what  was  to  her  a 
revelation.  She  heard  it  first  as  a 
child  hears  a  story  of  magic.  When 
she  came  out  of  the  hospital,  she  told 
it  as  if  it  was  one.  I  —  I  —  "  he 
bit  his  lips  and  moistened  them, 
"argued  with  her  and  reproached 
her.  Christ  the  Merciful,  forgive 
me!  She  sat  in  her  squalid  little 

room   with  her    magic  —  sometimes 
IP 


A    TO-MORROW 

in  the  dark  —  sometimes  without 
fire,  and  she  clung  to  it,  and  loved  it 
and  asked  it  to  help  her,  as  a  child 
asks  its  father  for  bread.  When  she 
was  answered  —  and  God  forgive  me 
again  for  doubting  that  the  simple 
good  that  came  to  her  was  an  answer 
—  when  any  small  help  came  to  her, 
she  was  a  radiant  thing,  and  without 
a  shadow  of  doubt  in  her  eyes  told 
me  of  it  as  proof — proof  that  she 
had  been  heard.  When  things  went 
wrong  for  a  day  and  the  fire  was  out 
again  and  the  room  dark,  she  said,  '  I 
'ave  n't  kept  near  enough  —  I  'ave  n't 
trusted  true.  It  will  be  gave  me 
soon,'  and  when  once  at  such  a  time 
I  said  to  her,  '  We  must  learn  to  say, 
Thy  will  be  done/  she  smiled  up  at 
me  like  a  happy  baby  and  answered : 
133 


THE    DAWN    OF 

'  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  In 
'eaven.  Lor',  there  's  no  cold  there, 
nor  no  'unger  nor  no  cryin'  nor  pain. 
That 's  the  way  the  will  is  done  in 
'eavcn.  That 's  wot  I  arst  for  all 
day  long  —  for  it  to  be  done  on 
earth  as  it  is  in  'eaven.'  What  could 
I  say  ?  Could  I  tell  her  that  the  will 
of  the  Deity  on  the  earth  he  created 
was  only  the  will  to  do  evil  —  to 
give  pain  —  to  crush  the  creature 
made  in  His  own  image.  What  else 
do  we  mean  when  we  say  under  all 
horror  and  agony  that  befalls,  « It  is 
God's  will  —  God's  will  be  done.' 
Base  unbeliever  though  I  am,  I  could 
not  speak  the  words.  Oh,  she  has 
something  we  have  not.  Her  poor, 
little  misspent  life  has  changed  itself 

into  a  shining  thing,  though  it  shines 
134 


A    TO-MORROW 

and  glows  only  in  this  hideous  place. 
She  herself  does  not  know  of  its 
shining.  But  Drunken  Bet  would 
stagger  up  to  her  room  and  ask  to  be 
told  what  she  called  her  '  pantermine' 
stories.  I  have  seen  her  there  sitting 
listening  —  listening  with  strange 
quiet  on  her  and  dull  yearning  in 
her  sodden  eyes.  So  would  other 
and  worse  women  go  to  her,  and 
I,  who  had  struggled  with  them, 
could  see  that  she  had  reached  some 
remote  longing  in  their  beings  which 
I  had  never  touched.  In  time  the 
seed  would  have  stirred  to  life  —  it  is 
beginning  to  stir  even  now.  During 
the  months  since  she  came  back  to  the 
court  —  though  they  have  laughed 
at  her  —  both  men  and  women  have 
begun  to  see  her  as  a  creature  weirdly 
135 


THE  DAWN    OF 

set  apart.  Most  of  them  feel  some- 
thing like  awe  of  her ;  they  half  be- 
lieve her  prayers  to  be  bewitchments, 
but  they  want  them  on  their  side. 
They  have  never  wanted  mine.  That 
I  have  known —  known.  She  believes 
that  her  Deity  is  in  Apple  Blossom 
Court  —  in  the  dire  holes  its  people 
live  in,  on  the  broken  stairway,  in 
every  nook  and  awful  cranny  of  it  — 
a  great  Glory  we  will  not  see  —  only 
waiting  to  be  called  and  to  answer. 
Do  /  believe  it  —  do  you  —  4°  anv 
of  those  anointed  of  us  who  preach 
each  day  so  glibly  « God  is  everywhere'  ? 
Who  is  the  one  who  believes  ?  If 
there  were  such  a  man  he  would  go 
about  as  Moses  did  when  '  He  wist 
not  that  his  face  shone.' ' 

They  had  gone  out  together  and 
136 


A    TO-MORROW 

were  standing  in  the  fog  in  the 
court.  The  curate  removed  his  hat 
and  passed  his  handkerchief  over  his 
damp  forehead,  his  breath  coming 
and  going  almost  sobbingly,  his  eyes 
staring  straight  before  him  into  the 
yellowness  of  the  haze. 

"  Who,"  he  said  after  a  moment 
of  singular  silence,  "  who  are  you  ?  " 

Antony  Dart  hesitated  a  few 
seconds,  and  at  the  end  of  his  pause 
he  put  his  hand  into  his  overcoat 
pocket. 

"  If  you  will  come  upstairs  with 
me  to  the  room  where  the  girl  Glad 
lives,  I  will  tell  you/'  he  said,  "but 
before  we  go  I  want  to  hand  some- 
thing over  to  you." 

The  curate  turned  an  amazed  gaze 
upon  him. 

'37 


THE    DAWN    OF 

'What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

Dart  withdrew  his  hand  from  his 
pocket,  and  the  pistol  was  in  it. 

"  I  came  out  this  morning  to  buy 
this,"  he  said.  "  I  intended  —  never 
mind  what  I  intended.  A  wrong 
turn  taken  in  the  fog  brought  me 
here.  Take  this  thing  from  me  and 
keep  it." 

The  curate  took  the  pistol  and  put 
it  into  his  own  pocket  without  com- 
ment. In  the  course  of  his  labors 
he  had  seen  desperate  men  and  des- 
perate things  many  times.  He  had 
even  been  —  at  moments  —  a  desper- 
ate man  thinking  desperate  things 
himself,  though  no  human  being  had 
ever  suspected  the  fact.  This  man 
had  faced  some  tragedy,  he  could  see. 
Had  he  been  on  the  verge  of  a  crime 


A    TO-MORROW 

—  had  he  looked  murder  in  the  eyes  ? 
What  had  made  him  pause  ?  Was 
it  possible  that  the  dream  of  Jinny 
Montaubyn  being  in  the  air  had 
reached  his  brain  —  his  being  ? 

He  looked  almost  appealingly  at 
him,  but  he  only  said  aloud : 

"  Let  us  go  upstairs,  then." 

So  they  went. 

As  they  passed  the  door  of  the 
room  where  the  dead  woman  lay 
Dart  went  in  and  spoke  to  Miss 
Montaubyn,  who  was  still  there. 

"  If  there  are  things  wanted  here,'* 
he  said,  "  this  will  buy  them."  And 
he  put  some  money  into  her  hand. 

She  did  not  seem  surprised  at  the 
incongruity  of  his  shabbiness  produc- 
ing money. 

"Well,   now,"   she   said,  "I   was 


THE    DAWN    OF 

wonderin'  an'  askin'.  I'd  like  'er 
clean  an'  nice,  an'  there's  milk 
wanted  bad  for  the  biby." 

In  the  room  they  mounted  to  Glad 
was  trying  to  feed  the  child  with 
bread  softened  in  tea.  Polly  sat  near 
her  looking  on  with  restless,  eager 
eyes.  She  had  never  seen  anything 
of  her  own  baby  but  its  limp  new- 
born and  dead  body  being  carried 
away  out  of  sight.  She  had  not  even 
dared  to  ask  what  was  done  with  such 
poor  little  carrion.  The  tyranny  of 
the  law  of  life  made  her  want  to  paw 
and  touch  this  lately  born  thing,  as  her 
agony  had  given  her  no  fruit  of  her 
own  body  to  touch  and  paw  and  nuzzle 
and  caress  as  mother  creatures  will 
whether  they  be  women  or  tigresses 
or  doves  or  female  cats. 
140 


A    TO-MORROW 

"  Let  me  hold  her,  Glad,"  she  half 
whimpered.  "  When  she  's  fed  let 
me  get  her  to  sleep." 

"  All  right,"  Glad  answered  ;  "  we 
could  look  after  'er  between  us  well 
enough." 

The  thief  was  still  sitting  on  the 
hearth,  but  being  full  fed  and  com- 
fortable for  the  first  time  in  many  a 
day,  he  had  rested  his  head  against 
the  wall  and  fallen  into  profound 
sleep. 

"  Wot 's  up  ? "  said  Glad  when  the 
two  men  came  in.  "  Is  anythin' 
'appenin'  ? " 

"  I  have  come  up  here  to  tell  you 
something,"  Dart  answered.  "  Let 
us  sit  down  again  round  the  fire.  It 
will  take  a  little  time." 

Glad    with    eager    eyes    on    him 


141 


THE    DAWN    OF 

handed  the  child  to  Polly  and  sat 
down  without  a  moment's  hesitance, 
avid  of  what  was  to  come.  She 
nudged  the  thief  with  friendly  elbow 
and  he  started  up  awake. 

"  'E  's  got  somethin'  to  tell  us," 
she  explained.  "  The  curick  's  come 
up  to  'ear  it,  too.  Sit  'ere,  Polly," 
with  elbow  jerk  toward  the  bundle 
of  sacks.  "  It 's  got  its  stummick 
full  an'  it  '11  go  to  sleep  fast  enough." 

So  they  sat  again  in  the  weird 
circle.  Neither  the  strangeness  of 
the  group  nor  the  squalor  of  the 
hearth  were  of  a  nature  to  be  new 
things  to  the  curate.  His  eyes  fixed 
themselves  on  Dart's  face,  as  did  the 
eyes  of  the  thief,  the  beggar,  and  the 
young  thing  of  the  street.  No  one 

glanced  away  from  him. 
142 


A    TO-MORROW 

His  telling  of  his  story  was  almost 
monotonous  in  its  semi-reflective 
quietness  of  tone.  The  strangeness 
to  himself —  though  it  was  a  strange- 
ness he  accepted  absolutely  without 
protest  —  lay  in  his  telling  it  at  all, 
and  in  a  sense  of  his  knowledge  that 
each  of  these  creatures  would  under- 
stand and  mysteriously  know  what 
depths  he  had  touched  this  day. 

"  Just  before  I  left  my  lodgings 
this  morning,"  he  said,  "  I  found  my- 
self standing  in  the  middle  of  my 
room  and  speaking  to  Something 
aloud.  I  did  not  know  I  was  going 
to  speak.  I  did  not  know  what  I 
was  speaking  to.  I  heard  my  own 
voice  cry  out  in  agony,  « Lord,  Lord, 
what  shall  I  do  to  be  saved  ? '  " 

The  curate  made  a  sudden  move- 
rs 


THE    DAWN    OF 

ment  in  his  place  and  his  sallow 
young  face  flushed.  But  he  said 
nothing. 

Glad's  small  and  sharp  counte- 
nance became  curious. 

"'Speak,  Lord,  thy  servant  'ear- 
eth,'  "  she  quoted  tentatively. 

"  No,"  answered  Dart ;  "  it  was 
not  like  that.  I  had  never  thought 
of  such  things.  I  believed  nothing. 
I  was  going  out  to  buy  a  pistol  and 
when  I  returned  intended  to  blow 
my  brains  out." 

"Why?"  asked  Glad,  with  pas- 
sionately intent  eyes  ;  "  why  ? " 

"  Because  I  was  worn  out  and  done 
for,  and  all  the  world  seemed  worn 
out  and  done  for.  And  among  other 
things  I  believed  I  was  beginning 
slowly  to  go  mad." 
144 


A    TO-MORROW 

From  the  thief  there  burst  forth  a 
low  groan  and  he  turned  his  face  to 
the  wall. 

"  I  Ve  been  there,"  he  said  ;  "  I  'm 
near  there  now." 

Dart  took  up  speech  again. 

"  There  was  no  answer  —  none. 
As  I  stood  waiting  —  God  knows  for 
what  —  the  dead  stillness  of  the  room 
was  like  the  dead  stillness  of  the  grave. 
And  I  went  out  saying  to  my  soul, 
'  This  is  what  happens  to  the  fool 
who  cries  aloud  in  his  pain.' ' 

"  I  've  cried  aloud,"  said  the  thief, 
"and  sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  an 
answer  was  coming  —  but  I  always 
knew  it  never  would !  "  in  a  tortured 
voice. 

"  'T  ain't  fair  to  arst  that  wye," 
Glad  put  in  with  shrewd  logic. 

'45 


THE    DAWN    OF 

"  Miss  Montaubyn  she  allers  knows 
it  will  come — an'  it  does." 

"  Something — not  myself — turned 
my  feet  toward  this  place,"  said  Dart. 
"  I  was  thrust  from  one  thing  to  an- 
other. I  was  forced  to  see  and  hear 
things  close  at  hand.  It  has  been  as 
if  I  was  under  a  spell.  The  woman 
in  the  room  below  —  the  woman  lying 
dead!"  He  stopped  a  second,  and 
then  went  on :  "  There  is  too  much 
that  is  crying  out  aloud.  A  man  such 
as  I  am  —  it  has  forced  itself  upon  me 
—  cannot  leave  such  things  and  give 
himself  to  the  dust.  I  cannot  explain 
clearly  because  I  am  not  thinking  as 
I  am  accustomed  to  think.  A  change 
has  come  upon  me.  I  shall  not 
use  the  pistol  —  as  I  meant  to  use 
it." 

146 


A    TO-MORROW 

Glad  made  a  friendly  clutch  at  the 
sleeve  of  his  shabby  coat. 

"Right  O  !  "  she  cried.  "  That 's 
it !  You  buck  up  sime  as  I  told  yer. 
Y'  ain't  stony  broke  an'  there 's  allers 
to-morrer." 

Antony  Dart's  expression  was 
weirdly  retrospective. 

"  I  did  not  think  so  this  morning," 
he  answered. 

"  But  there  is,"  said  the  girl. 
"Ain't  there  now,  curick  ?  There's 
a  lot  o'  work  in  yer  yet ;  yer  could 
do  all  sorts  o'  things  if  y'  ain't 
too  proud.  I  '11  'elp  yer.  So  '11 
the  curick.  Y'  ain't  found  out  yet 
what  a  little  folks  can  live  on  till 
luck  turns.  Me,  I  'm  goin'  to  try 
Miss  Montaubyn's  wye.  Le's  both 
try.  Le  's  believe  things  is  comin'. 
147 


THE    DAWN    OF 

Le's  get  'er  to  talk  to  us  some 
more." 

The  curate  was  thinking  the  thing 
over  deeply. 

"Yer  see/'  Glad  enlarged  cheer- 
fully, "yer  look  almost  like  a  gentle- 
man. P'raps  yer  can  write  a  good 
'and  an'  spell  all  right.  Can  yer  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  think,  perhaps,"  the  curate  be- 
gan reflectively,  "  particularly  if  you 
can  write  well,  I  might  be  able  to 
get  you  some  work." 

"  I  do  not  want  work,"  Dart  an- 
swered slowly.  "At  least  I  do  not 
want  the  kind  you  would  be  likely 
to  offer  me." 

The  curate  felt  a  shock,  as  if  cold 
water  had  been  dashed  over  him. 
Somehow  it  had  not  once  occurred 


A    TO-MORROW 

to  him  that  the  man  could  be  one 
of  the  educated  degenerate  vicious 
for  whom  no  power  to  help  lay  in 
any  hands — yet  he  was  not  the  com- 
mon vagrant  —  and  he  was  plainly 
on  the  point  of  producing  an  excuse 
for  refusing  work. 

The  other  man,  seeing  his  start 
and  his  amazed,  troubled  flush,  put 
out  a  hand  and  touched  his  arm 
apologetically. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon/'  he  said. 
"One  of  the  things  I  was  going  to 
tell  you  —  I  had  not  finished  —  was 
that  I  am  what  is  called  a  gentleman. 
I  am  also  what  the  world  knows  as  a 
rich  man.  I  am  Sir  Oliver  Holt." 

Each  member  of  the  party  gazed 
at  him  aghast.  It  was  an  enormous 
name  to  claim.  Even  the  two  female 
149 


THE    DAWN    OF 

creatures  knew  what  it  stood  for.  It 
was  the  name  which  represented  the 
greatest  wealth  and  power  in  the  world 
of  finance  and  schemes  of  business. 
It  stood  for  financial  influence  which 
could  change  the  face  of  national  for- 
tunes and  bring  about  crises.  It  was 
known  throughout  the  world.  Yes- 
terday the  newspaper  rumor  that  its 
owner  had  mysteriously  left  England 
had  caused  men  on  'Change  to  discuss 
possibilities  together  with  lowered 
voices. 

Glad  stared  at  the  curate.  For  the 
first  time  she  looked  disturbed  and 
alarmed. 

"Blimme,"  she  ejaculated,  "'e's 
gone  off  'is  nut,  pore  chap  !  —  'e  's 
gone  off  it !  " 

"No,"  the  man  answered,  "you 
150 


•And  a  few  hours  ago  you  were  on  the  point 


A    TO-MORROW 

shall  come  to  me  "  —  he  hesitated  a 
second  while  a  shade  passed  over  his 
eyes  —  "to-morrow.  And  you  shall 
see." 

He  rose  quietly  to  his  feet  and  the 
curate  rose  also.  Abnormal  as  the 
climax  was,  it  was  to  be  seen  that 
there  was  no  mistake  about  the  rev- 
elation. The  man  was  a  creature  of 
authority  and  used  to  carrying  con- 
viction by  his  unsupported  word. 
That  made  itself,  by  some  clear,  un- 
spoken method,  plain. 

"  You  are  Sir  Oliver  Holt !  And 
a  few  hours  ago  you  were  on  the 
point  of  — " 

"  Ending  it  all  —  in  an  obscure 
lodging.  Afterward  the  earth  would 
have  been  shovelled  on  to  a  work- 
house coffin.  It  was  an  awful  thing." 


THE    DAWN  OF 

He  shook  off  a  passionate  shudder. 
"  There  was  no  wealth  on  earth  that 
could  give  me  a  moment's  ease  — 
sleep  —  hope  —  life.  The  whole 
world  was  full  of  things  I  loathed  the 
sight  and  thought  of.  The  doctors 
said  my  condition  was  physical.  Per- 
haps it  was  —  perhaps  to-day  has 
strangely  given  a  healthful  jolt  to  my 
nerves  —  perhaps  I  have  been  dragged 
away  from  the  agony  of  morbidity 
and  plunged  into  new  intense  emo- 
tions which  have  saved  me  from  the 
last  thing  and  the  worst  —  saved 
me!" 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  his  face 
flushed,  and  then  quite  slowly  turned 
pale. 

"  Saved  me!  "  he  repeated  the  words 
as  the  curate  saw  the  awed  blood 
15* 


A    TO-MORROW 

creepingly  recede.  "Who  knows, 
who  knows!  How  many  explana- 
tions one  is  ready  to  give  before  one 
thinks  of  what  we  say  we  believe. 
Perhaps  it  was  —  the  Answer  !  " 

The  curate  bowed  his  head  rev- 
erently. 

"  Perhaps  it  was." 

The  girl  Glad  sat  clinging  to  her 
knees,  her  eyes  wide  and  awed  and 
with  a  sudden  gush  of  hysteric  tears 
rushing  down  her  cheeks. 

"That's  the  wye!  That's  the 
wye  !  "  she  gulped  out.  "  No  one 
won't  never  believe  —  they  won't, 
never.  That's  what  she  sees,  Miss 
Montaubyn.  You  don't,  ye  don't," 
with  a  jerk  toward  the  curate.  "  I 
ain't  nothin'  but  me,  but  blimme  if  I 
don't  —  blimme ! " 
'S3 


THE    DAWN    OF 

Sir  Oliver  Holt  grew  paler  still. 
He  felt  as  he  had  done  when  Jinny 
Montaubyn's  poor  dress  swept  against 
him.  His  voice  shook  when  he 
spoke. 

"So  do  I,"  he  said  with  a  sudden 
deep  catch  of  the  breath ;  "  it  was 
the  Answer/' 

In  a  few  moments  more  he  went 
to  the  girl  Polly  and  laid  a  hand  on 
her  shoulder. 

"  I  shall  take  you  home  to  your 
mother,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  take  you 
myself  and  care  for  you  both.  She 
shall  know  nothing  you  are  afraid  of 
her  hearing.  I  shall  ask  her  to  bring 
up  the  child.  You  will  help  her." 

Then  he   touched  the  thief,  who 
got  up  white  and  shaking  and  with 
eyes  moist  with  excitement. 
154 


A    TO-MORROW 

"You  shall  never  see  another  man 
claim  your  thought  because  you  have 
not  time  or  money  to  work  it  out. 
You  will  go  with  me.  There  are 
to-morrows  enough  for  you  !  " 

Glad  still  sat  clinging  to  her  knees 
and  with  tears  running,  but  the  ugli- 
ness of  her  sharp,  small  face  was  a 
thing  an  angel  might  have  paused  to 
sec. 

"  You  don't  want  to  go  away  from 
here,"  Sir  Oliver  said  to  her,  and  she 
shook  her  head. 

"  No,  not  me.  I  told  yer  wot  I 
wanted.  Lemme  do  it." 

"You  shall,"  he  answered,  "and 
I  will  help  you." 

The    things  which    developed    in 
Apple  Blossom  Court  later,  the  things 
155 


THE  DAWN  OF  A  TO-MORRO 

which  came  to  each  of  those  who 
had  sat  in  the  weird  circle  round  the 
fire,  the  revelations  of  new  existence 
which  came  to  herself,  aroused  no 
amazement  in  Jinny  Montaubyn's 
mind.  She  had  asked  and  believed 
all  things  —  and  all  this  was  but 
another  of  the  Answers. 


THE    END 


OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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